


Ashen Phoenix

by Moon_Rose (Moonrose91)



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Bilbo Baggins/Thorin Oakenshield is both past and future, Book Spoilers, Coma, Debating on that just a tad, For flavor variety, Gen, Graphic Injury, Keep that in mind while reading this please, M/M, Mentioned BAMF Bilbo, PTSD, Physically Crippled Bilbo, Possible Future Movie Spoilers, Prepare the Tissues, Prompt Fic, Then again which of my stuff DOESN'T do that?, This fic shall be an angst cake with angsty layers and some fluff intermixed, This is going to make your heart hurt, We're gonna ignore the Ring maybe, little frodo
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-03-15
Updated: 2014-05-27
Packaged: 2017-12-05 08:58:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 40
Words: 62,863
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/721254
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Moonrose91/pseuds/Moon_Rose
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Sometimes you have to kind-of die inside in order to rise from your own ashes and believe in yourself and love yourself to become a new person.” ― Gerard Way</p><p>The Goblins come for Vengeance, the Orcs on their Wargs come because of Hate.</p><p>The Men and Elves and Dwarrows fight for Home.</p><p>Thorin's Company fights for Kin.</p><p>Bilbo Baggins fights for Love.</p><p>He should have realized he would pay a heavy price for it.</p><p>(For being so small a word, it is so very weighty.)</p><p> </p><p>  <a href="http://hobbit-kink.livejournal.com/5821.html?thread=12567997#t12567997">Prompt Here</a></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Fiery Agony (Semi-Graphic Violence and Some Disturbing Injury)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [LadyRedFeather](https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyRedFeather/gifts).



> I cheerfully, gleefully, and without any care whatsoever, bash apart timelines for this.
> 
> That's the first, and last, warning you shall get over that.
> 
> (Also...Canon Divergence, oh so very much.)

Battle, Bilbo Baggins decides, is not like how it is told in his books.

In his books, it was all glorious deeds and sung praises, not the blood and the screams and the fear that clings to one's heart as they try desperately to stay alive. Bilbo is also sure his terror is much higher than those around him, as he barely knows how to use Sting, has rarely used his blade, after the Spiders.

As it is, Bilbo is sure that, were it not for the mithril shirt (he couldn't give it back, not the last thing Thorin gave him with warmth and affection and dare Bilbo Baggins think  _love_?) and his magic ring, Bilbo would most likely be paralyzed in fear.

He shouldn't even be here, Thranduil had _told him_ he had no place in battle (and his eyes were concerned, and Legolas, who Bilbo barely got to know, said that he was, and that Thranduil did not want Bilbo harmed, he had taken a liking to the Hobbit, and not because of the betrayl don't give me that look), but all Bilbo can think of is the Company, his  _Family_ , out there, fighting ( _Fíli and Kíli laughing brightly as Bofur tells another of his horrible, horrible jokes, Glóin waxing poetical about his son and wife, Óin shouting curses as they injured themselves_ ** _again_** _, Ori sitting with his journal near the dying embers while Dori fusses quietly over him, and Bifur showing Bilbo the toys he carves with his whittling tools because Bilbo_ ** _asked_** _, and Bombur sitting next to him, slinging his arm around Bilbo to keep him warm when the chill of autumn began to set in, and Balin giving him a thick coat that he traded for in Lake-town, and Dwalin teaching him how to use Sting properly with far more patience than anything else and the entire time, in the shadows of the night, Nori teaching him tiny tricks of a trade that is not his but_ _Nori's and why didn't they just use Nori, he's so much_ ** _better_** _at this than Bilbo_ ), and, as always, his heart hammered to  _Thor-in-Thor-in-Thor-in_ , because it is all there, there his Family, and he doesn't have many he can call his  _Family_ (the capital letter is important) anymore, he had three, and that's a poor size for a Hobbit, and now he has sixteen (seventeen if he includes Gandalf and he does, but he doesn't have many just  _there_ memories of Gandalf that are from the Quest) and he  _can't_ leave them to die, he  _can't_.

If he took off his magic ring, he wouldn't have to doge allies' weapons as well, but he needs every advantage he can get from this.

Bilbo Baggins doesn't care about himself, he just needs to save his Family.

Black blood flows when he stabs into the orcs and goblins. He slices the sides of wargs and he is brutal to any who try to go after his  _Family_ and he won't allow that.

He is covered in blood, both his and the enemies (and some allies, but he doesn't think on that), and he feels the world around him slow even farther in this world of diluted brown when he sees Azog striding toward where Thorin stands, Fíli and Kíli at his back. The three are fighting violently, but it is Kíli who sees Azog first.

Reckless Kíli who does not hesitate to let out a war cry, the one the Dwarrows always cry as they enter battle and attack Azog.

Azog swings his mace and it collides with Kíli (who didn't  _think_ , who didn't  _plan_ , and he never does, the silly boy, how often as Bilbo  _told him_ after the Troll Incident that he needs to  _think_ before he  _acts_ not the other way around?) hard enough to send him crashing to the ground and near senseless.

It is not only Bilbo's voice who raises in an anguished cry, drawing Azog's attention away from his kill as Fíli cries for his brother while he charges Azog, drawing Thorin's attention to the fight behind him. "Fíli,  _no_ ," Thorin shouts, but it is too late as Fíli begins his deadly dance with Azog before he too is sent flying.

(Bilbo is frozen in the battlefield, unable to tear his eyes away as he watches this, cannot look away, in agony over seeing the two boys, Kíli who is not yet an adult, for all that he tries to be, and Fíli who barely is one, have both fallen and Bilbo _can’t move_ and…)

Thorin is enraged as he charges Azog once more.

He is violent and so filled with the Battle Lust Dwalin once spoke of that he does not feel the sting of the arrows that hit him, nor the bite of the Azog’s claw when Thorin’s arm comes up to block as if he still wore his namesake and Bilbo realizes then that Azog is toying with Thorin.

Azog wants to see Thorin suffer and Bilbo boils with rage (and fear, so much fear, but that was never gone in the first place).

Bilbo is moving then, and he rushes and dodges his way towards where Thorin is fighting Azog with no warg this time, and Bilbo is pocketing his magic ring as Azog swings and sends Thorin flying in the opposite direction of his nephews, keeping them separated and Thorin fights for his feet again, only to get the claw hooked into his shoulder before being thrown back.

Azog is not waiting, Thorin _is_ going to die and…

“Azog!” Bilbo shouts.

The pale orc turns then, and gives a cruel and vicious smirk, speaking in that language that makes Bilbo think of pits filled with tar-thick Darkness and Despair and drags on Bilbo’s fatigued mind.

Bilbo Baggins of the Shire is not made for battle.

Neither is the Burglar of Thorin’s Company.

(They are not the same people, never can be, because Bilbo Baggins is not the Hobbit he was when he left and he is not the Company’s Burglar anymore, either, Thorin said as much.)

But Bilbo Baggins, Banished Burglar of the Company, is willing to do _anything_ to save his family, including dying.

Bilbo doesn’t hesitate as he pries a helmet off of an orc and _heaves_ it at Azog.

His aim is a bit off, but he expected that (he doesn’t usually throw anything that heavy), but it keeps course enough to _slam_ into Azog’s shoulder. It is enough to get Azog coming after _him_ , little Bilbo Baggins, the _Halfling_ (and he _despises_ being called that, except when it is used with affection, as if a nickname instead of a degradation), and Bilbo lets his smug smile curl across his face.

It infuriates Azog and the pale orc is upon him.

Bilbo uses his natural talents, of moving quickly and lightly no matter the terrain as he dances about Azog, refusing to pause, even landing in a few glancing blows on occasion with Sting, the Elvish blade biting into Azog.

He does not hesitate when he gets in close (even as guilt dances along the edges of his mind, because this is _Thorin’s_ fight, but Thorin has fallen, and Bilbo _must_ ) and stabs up into Azog’s chest, Sting sinking to the hilt and then…

 _Agony_.

Pure, fiery _agony_ curls up his leg and he screams.

Bilbo screams with pain as it lights his entire being on fire, as if he is being set alight and Azog is on him, but that isn’t what hurts, no never, that, that isn’t the cause of his pain, it is leg, oh, by the Green Lady, it is his leg!

It burns with pain and he cannot fall into darkness, no matter how much he wishes for it to claim him, to let him escape from this agony and his throat feels torn to shreds from his screams that have now dissolved into whimpers and he feels something shift and he’s screaming again, his voice piercing the sky above, and Legolas is in his vision and it takes a while for Bilbo to realize that he isn’t screaming anymore, he’s gone back to whimpers and Legolas gives a gentle smile.

“At ease, my friend, if I may call you that. I’ll get you safely from here. I have your blade, don’t fret,” he soothed and Bilbo couldn’t stop the scream as he is suddenly moved and then, only then, does the darkness take him into its embrace.

But that darkness, that darkness he thought would be so soothing, isn’t.

Because all around him, still filling him, is fiery agony that makes spikes through him, starting at his leg and climbing up, up, _up_.

(And Bilbo just wants it all to _stop_.)


	2. Smoldering Pain (Mention of Past Severe Grieving)

Bilbo wakes with a cry on his lips as he reaches for the air, as if he can tear it down to get some relief, remembering only pain,  _so much_ _pain_ , blending with a deep, heart-filled desire to protect his Family. Only then does it rocket back through him and he begins to make chocked sounds of agony, feeling as his leg has been splintered and shattered and he  _can't scream_!

And then Legolas is there, gently grasping his wrists and a hand on his hair. "At peace, my friend. You are in the healing tents of the Elves. Father is quite displeased with you, especially as you sustained such a serious injury. The healers have managed to set it, however, though they fear healing it with any healing magic," Legolas stated gently and Bilbo felt his eyes flicker as he searches Legolas's eyes for the truth the elf is keeping from him.

Legolas does not have his father's coldness, and Bilbo thinks that Legolas gets his gentleness, his warmth, from his mother, something that Bilbo keeps to himself, quietly adding eighteen and nineteen (Legolas and Thranduil, because he could not adopt the son without the father, even if he sometimes wanted to convince Thranduil to get closer to his eye level so he could smack the Elf King upside the head) to his Family, because Bilbo knows how that can comfort a grieving parent. How it comforts their broken spirits and continues to force their hearts to continue beating, seeing a part of what they have lost in their child, musing over how their missing one would react to this or that.

(But Bilbo also knows the dark side of it, what it means to have that parent cling to that piece and crumple when the child is more like the parent still _there_ instead of the one that is  _gone_. About the part that leaves the child hurting as well, knowing that their parent will never harm them, not intentionally, when they are less like the one that is missing and more like the one that is there, it is noticed and editing is made until it is second nature, not first, and smiles are earned and praise of, "Your father would be so proud," come through the air.)

Not personally as the parent, but personally as the child, as he's a confirmed bachelor and all that applies in Hobbiton, and the Shire, but it kept his mother alive for eight years, the parts of him that were his father.

"What...what's wrong?" he gasped out, because he's wandered too far into his mind, and he doesn't want to go there, does not want to think about his mother's last years of life (of when Bilbo Baggins carefully crafted the Bungo Baggins parts of himself while hiding the Belladonna Took parts of himself, so she could whisper, "Your father would be so proud of you," with a bright smile on her thinning face).

But Legolas didn't answer, he just continued to run a comforting hand through Bilbo's hair, even as he glanced over and gave the tiniest of nods.

"Bilbo, we're going to knock you back out. You need to be moved, and then I'll explain everything, all right?" Legolas promised, and now he looks old, instead of the subdued Legolas he knew in the moments between being brought back to the camp of Men and Elves near the ruins of Lake-town and the Battle of Five Armies (at least, that's what Bilbo is calling it), but something still of a bright child.

However, the words slip through Bilbo's mind and, before he can protest, a thick tea, syrupy sweet, is being carefully urged down his throat and he's once again submerged in the pain filled darkness.

Thank the Merciful Lady that this time the pain was merely a low burning, as if he hadn't licked his fingers enough before putting out a candle, though how far it climbs, how  _deep_ it seems to go, makes him wish to cry out.

(Once again, in this pain-filled darkness, he cannot.)

* * *

Bilbo woke with a whimper as the pain slammed into him, agony filling his being, eyes clenched closed as his teeth ground down together, and there was a low, disapproving, voice filling the air with a simple, “I informed you that Hobbits would take more than a child of that size.”

Bilbo forced his eyes open to find that he was staring at a stone ceiling, beautifully crafted to mimic the boughs of a tree (but with something completely _Dwarvish_ about it, despite the Elvish design) to the point where it took Bilbo a few minutes to realize it _was_ a stone ceiling he was staring at.

He trembled all over in agony and he blinked a bit to find Thranduil looking down at him. “At ease, Bilbo Baggins. The pain you feel will dull, fear not. When you wake again, Legolas shall keep his promise,” the Elf King explained and there is more of the thick, syrupy sweet tea being poured down his throat.

This time, the pain is a dull ache and he thanks the Merciful Lady and the Green Lady (and the Stone King and Eru) in equal measure for the mercy of it.

(And Bilbo Baggins truly rests for the first time since gaining his unknown injury in his left leg.)

* * *

When Bilbo wakes again, a throbbing has overtaken his lower left leg, and it feels heavy, though he cannot fathom why that is so.

He lets out a low groan, feeling less pain then before and less inclined to whimper like a fauntling, though he thinks he can be excused from doing so earlier. He begins to shift, only to have Legolas there in an instant, carefully easing him up, which made Bilbo’s brain feel a bit muzzy.

“Easy Bilbo,” Legolas soothed and helped him sip some water from a crystal goblet.

Because Bilbo, unlike certain Dwarven Kings who shall not be named, he knew when he needed help and accepted it.

His brain felt muzzy and then it was if he was shocked by a piece of metal on a day that warned of a thunderstorm. “Thorin, Fíli, Kíli?” Bilbo begged, clutching desperately at Legolas when the Elf looked to draw back and he carefully rested a hand against Bilbo’s cheek, after returning the crystal goblet to the bedside table.

“At peace Bilbo. They’re alive. Badly injured, but alive,” Legolas soothed and Bilbo relaxed, releasing Legolas.

Or trying to, at least.

Pain washed over him in waves as he moved to let go and he involuntarily tightened his grip on Legolas’s tunic until the pain subsided. Only then did he pry his fingers from Legolas’s tunic with a soft apology.

“You shouldn’t grind your teeth like that,” Legolas stated as he carefully settled on a chair at Bilbo’s side.

“You should try to prevent yourself from screaming in agony when your friend’s sensitive ear is close enough to possible rupture an eardrum,” Bilbo retorted softly.

Legolas smiled. “I’m not that delicate.”

They could go like this for hours and had. In fact, Legolas loved to mentally spar, and trading insults could easily take up a chunk of their time, but this was not the time for that, and Bilbo was quick to set them back on route.

“Why am I in pain?” Bilbo returned.

He didn’t have to know Legolas long to have Bilbo thinking of Fíli and Kíli when he gazed at the Elf, who Bilbo wasn’t sure if he was young by Elf standards or not, but he _seemed_ young to Bilbo.

And in that way of youth, there was that distant hope that if they avoided the conversation, they could fix the situation, or if they stalled, then it would all be okay.

“Azog’s mace was swinging down. It hit into your left shankbone,” Legolas explained, quickly, and Bilbo freezes all over.

The bone between the ankle and the knee is thick and sturdy, hard to break, and he thinks Azog fell on him. He knows that this type of injury is bad, that he will never walk the same again, in all likelihood, that getting _home_ (but Bag-End isn’t really home, anymore, and it hadn’t been since his mother died, leaving him alone with only a few visitors and his gardener, Hamfast, to visit with any regularity) will be next to impossible.

That when ( _if_ , his mind whispers, that self-doubt that plagued him till the Carrock creeping up and into his brain) Thorin rescinds his banishment of Bilbo, getting through Erebor will be a chore and a half, but he would be _home_ and that would be worth it. He would have to request Gandalf go to the Shire and get his needed things, and to help make sure the Prim and Drogo had Bag-End, but at the end of it, but for now, of all of this, all he can vocalize is a simple, “Oh.”

Legolas let out a low chuckle at that and Bilbo shook his head slightly before he glanced down at his legs to find that both knees were propped up slightly and he frowned. “So…why does my left leg feel so heavy?” he questioned and Legolas hesitated before he tugged back on the warm blankets.

Bilbo wasn’t sure how to feel about his entire leg, from mid-thigh with his knee slightly bent, down to his foot with only his toes poking out, encased in _something_.

“Was this necessary?” he questioned.

“Very.”

At Legolas’s serious, slightly pained, tone, Bilbo dropped. Instead, he began to question Legolas’s choice of attire and that was how the healers found them four hours later, trading insults, laughter dancing in their voices.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Left shankbone = left tibia = left shinbone
> 
> Owwwwwwww.
> 
> Also, because of the destroying of timeline, Holman Greenhand has passed his gardening duties to his cousin and apprentice, Hamfast Gamgee.
> 
> (My headcanon is that Hamfast Gamgee's parents were financially strained with all their children and didn't have enough to feed everyone, so Holman took one son, since he was a bachelor, and apprenticed Hamfast to his trade, because Hamfast had an eye, while other siblings were "apprenticed" by other bachelor, or childless, cousins, till Hamfast's parents could manage, and all done in such a way that it seemed more like the Gamgees were doing the favor instead of the other way around. And Hamfast knew it, but also knew that Holman wouldn't have taken him if he didn't think Hamfast could do the work. I don't know why this is, but maybe because I could see the families in the Shire, even if distantly, coming together like that for someone in a way that outsiders would think the one being helped was doing the helping, because the Shire is a gossip's breeding pit.)
> 
> Also, I say Dwarves know how to make plaster casts and shared it with the elves, because traditional plaster is made with hydrated lime, sand, water and horsehair.


	3. Though I Cannot Seem to Rise (Warnings for possible slaughter of Sindarin language for names and PTSD)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (You can skip the end notes, if you want. I wrote the end notes to cheer myself up after writing all of this.)
> 
> I hate doing this, but I need to disclaim NOW.
> 
> DO NOT EVER DO WHAT THE ELVES DO WITH THEIR HORSES EVER IN THIS CHAPTER!!!
> 
> I have a headcanon that Elves have horses that can do what Shadowfax can do.
> 
> In that he ran, without rest, for _days_.
> 
> HORSES CANNOT REALLY DO THIS!!
> 
> If you _ever_ go on a long-term trip with horses, for every five days of travel, you need one lay over day where all you do is rest. Horses need to actually sleep lying down so they don't fall sick and die.
> 
> You also need to pack enough food for them, rest for a few hours during the day, walk next to them for another part, maybe even spend an hour or two just letting them nap without anything on their backs while you also take a breathers.
> 
> As mentioned before Shadowfax ran without rest for days. He had to be put up in the stables and fed and rested _after_ , but if he had not been a super-horse, he would have died on the journey to Gondor, and they would not have been even half-way there.
> 
> My disclaimer for this chapter is over.
> 
> (Actually, not really, but I have to limit myself to keep from going off in a rant about how horses need food, rest, and consideration, not to mention a ton of water, because in fantasy books, unless mentioned _specifically_ that this was a magical horse, it drove me up the _wall_ that they were treated like machines that never needed rest or food or water and were always good to go.)

The day Bilbo awoke, Legolas promised that a Dwarf in charge would be informed of Bilbo's location, and Legolas wrote a letter to his father to explain that promise to him, before settling in to wait for his friend.

What neither Bilbo or Legolas would learn for years was that no one in the Company had gained the information of Bilbo Baggins's location.

The information would be given to one of Dain's aides, who would write it out and shuffle it away to be handled by the Dwarvish healers, and that, while the Company knew Bilbo Baggins was not dead, they had always thought they would have  _later_ , but in the meantime they had two heirs near death and a King in a coma who had not gone through his coronation, and the political mess from that alone would have distracted the Company, but they also had the cleanup and having to focus on getting everyone inside before winter was upon them. But the Company always thought they had  _later_ to find their Burglar, that they would find him amongst their distant kin, or the other Dwarves.

It wouldn't be till later that they would realize he wasn't in Erebor at all.

(And it would be longer after that they learned where he was.)

* * *

Bilbo sat in his healing bed, waiting for _anything_ from his friends.

Legolas stayed with him, except when his duties pulled him away, but as days turned to weeks, Bilbo slowly came to the realization that they viewed him as a traitor, that _Thorin_ must still view him as a traitor, for they have not tried to contact him at all.

With that realization came the feeling of being ripped up from the inside out, starting at the heart and going all the way down into the marrow, the throbbing in his leg increasing with each pained thought that his _Family_ hated him for trying to save them. His leg, immobilized and imprisoned by the heavy thing that kept it from moving, made it near impossible to move around easily, forcing him to keep to the crutches he was given, finding them painful to move around on, and often just sitting in the guest room he was given, in what probably used to be the Dwarven wing, as the furniture was built closer to his height, instead of wandering as he wished without having to worry about running into Elves on accident.

But he could not stay as he realized that his Family was not coming for him.

“I want to go home,” he told Legolas one day, staring up at him with pleading eyes, even if that home was in _Erebor_ , not the Shire.

“Then I will see you safely there,” Legolas promised.

* * *

Bilbo did not ask _how_ Legolas managed to convince his father to not only let Bilbo and Legolas take a dangerous, trip west from Mirkwood to the Shire, but to convince them to do so on horseback and with a few guards to help them.

He was just thankful that Thranduil had given his permission.

The cast was wrapped in thick cloths that repelled water far better than anything the Shire could create, and his trousers were specially made so that they would reach his ankles, on both legs, and Thranduil looked up at them, eyes concerned as he made sure that Bilbo was secure in the saddle in front of Legolas, even though he was sidesaddle, and it allowed him to see that the saddles had no stirrups and they seemed to be constructs to help hold supplies that were needed for the horses over actually being needed.

Bilbo could barely _think_ , however, as another hot, burning, throb of pain leapt up his leg, sending his brain into a haze that caused Legolas to tighten his grip on Bilbo, the horses snorting quietly in the morning air of Mirkwood.

“Ride fast, my son. I suspect something wrong and, as much as it pains me to say it, our healers are not as skilled as those in Rivendell,” Thranduil stated, in Sindarian and Legolas nodded before giving the order to ride out and the horses took off at a brisk walk, Bilbo forced to wind his hands into Legolas’s horse’s mane as they began, because this felt odd and unbalanced, and how _did_ Took ladies in their skirts do this?

Soon, far sooner than Bilbo thought was safe (traveling with ponies, learning from those who travelled for their livelihoods, he knew that ponies were their lifeblood, and how to get the most travel out of them without harming them, and generally that made them easier tempered too) they were up to a gallop, the horses seeming far more eager than their riders to get to where they were going, as if they sensed some greater problem in the air.

* * *

The first group of scattered orcs on wargs met their end before they even realized there was a host of Elven riders upon them.

Legolas, despite his skill with a bow, never drew it out, and, instead, kept a tight hold on Bilbo as the mare they rode on drew back, tense and prepared to run.

They encountered a tiny band of goblins in the night that was quickly slaughtered.

A few more small pockets of orcs without wargs, or wargs without orcs, were found, but each were completely slaughtered before the Elves continued on their mad journey.

But they never seemed to ever truly _pause_ , let alone _rest_ , as much as Bilbo thought they should to keep healthy, even if neither the Elves nor the horses seemed at all disturbed by the dangerous speed they were making their travel by.

In fact, except when Bilbo needed to move about or when the Elves, and their horses, needed a quick rest, maybe even some food, they didn’t really pause at _all_.

It all seemed to be so fast, to Bilbo at least, and the Hobbit had long given up at least being able to sleep on the ground, often finding himself just sleeping in front of Legolas as they rode across great plains at a breakneck speed.

(The speed that made Bilbo constantly fear for the horses, though they were breathing along as if they had just taken a leisurely trot down the lane and back, wondering what all the fuss was about whenever Bilbo was awake during their pauses, because Bilbo could not call them _stops_.)

During this all, the pain in his leg grew, despite the next to nothing jostling it went through as they careened across terrain that would have made his teeth ache while on Myrtle, though half of that was him, he would admit that readily.

And, when Bilbo _wasn’t_ being assaulted by the agony that seemed to only grow by the day, he wondered where the snow was.

He should have known it was right on their heels.

* * *

The snow started to fall as they reached what seemed to be the beginning of a mountain pass, earning a few creative curses from the one guiding them. At their left, a river rushed past them, but Bilbo was just shivering lightly as Legolas’s mare snorted and then began to move forward pointedly.

That was all it took for the rest to begin riding in earnest through the pass, though not nearly as quickly as before.

(Bilbo thinks Legolas chuckles at Bilbo’s sigh of relief.)

There is a midway point that they rest at that has room for the horses and is obviously meant for recuperation, which both Elves and horses, in a rare show of exhaustion, eagerly accept from the Elves that are obviously the guards for there.

There, they wait out the worst of the storm and, once it is cleared, the horses seem to be practically ready to charge off, fussy and snappish as one of the guards tries to convince them to stay, that travelling when another storm could come at any moment is dangerous for their injured companion, but Legolas shakes his head.

“Calithiliel is not afraid and she has not led me astray yet,” he stated as he carefully pat the gray mare’s neck before the mare began to move forward, hooves crunching against the icy snow, the way the pass was carved into the stone kept said pass, mostly, free of snow.

The orcs are not a surprise and their blood paints the snow a sickening black.

Bilbo is almost sick, remembering a battle that he should not have been part of, because his Family (omitting three members of it, Gandalf coming to visit him, briefly, before heading onward himself) didn’t care what he risked to see them safe.

Because that is all he has ever wanted.

That night, the nightmares start.

He wakes to cloth covered hand shoved over his mouth, and soothing words in Sindarian being whispered into his ear. He sobs as he tries to fight his way through internal demons and nightmares, and seeing his _Family_ dead, staining the ground with bloody mud.

He can barely breathe the entire time, terrified he’ll call horrors down onto the group.

Onto Hithon, who despite acting cold toward Bilbo, is the one who takes him from Legolas and eases him through the second aftershocks of night terrors, and battle ready Noruines who urges him to chew on certain herbs that she always has on her person, and even ever quiet Thurinor and his warm brother, Maethon, who leads them through the pass.

Even the two who take up the back and who Bilbo _knows_ will be the first to fall should they need to, which makes his heart   _ache_.

When they get out of the mountain pass, Calithiliel is rushing off at a straight out gallop that makes it seem like they are floating above the ground, not riding across it, and she refuses to stop as she careens her way toward Rivendell.

Bilbo starts refusing to go to sleep, terrified of the world he'll find himself trapped in where everyone is dead and gone, and he can't go through that again, can't lose his Family like that so suddenly  _again_ , that at least they're  _alive_ , and even if Thorin never looks at Bilbo again with eyes that are heavy with a deep seated grief that will only take time in security to heal, but filled with warmth despite it all, Bilbo thinks he can live with that.

So long as all he thinks about is Thorin staring at him with love, care, concern, worry, _anything_ but how cold they were at their final parting, because they burned like ice in their hatred.

When their group clatters into Rivendell, Bilbo is exhausted and unable to think of anything but  _pain_.

It is a relief when he falls into darkness.

(But it does not spare him from the heartache that awaits him in his night terrors.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My headcanon is that the Mearas are the Dúnedain of the Tolkien horse world, only without being displaced.
> 
> It is said that the _ancestor_ of the Mearas was one of the horses Oromë brought West, and I'm sure a few others joined Felaróf as well, creating the line of the Mearas.
> 
> It never said what happened to the rest of those horses, so...
> 
> My headcanon is that Elvish horses, like Asfaloth, are more like the original horses brought over, while the others that went to Rohan to be with Men chose the Mortal life.
> 
> (Kind of like Elrond and his twin, Elros. One chose the way of the Valar, the other chose the way of the Mortals, and was rewarded with lengthened life. 80 years is about the average for Man, in Tolkien's world, this meant the Mearas would be the companion and mount to the King of Rohan till the King died, most likely, as they would be find each other probably about when the prince was 10/11, and the Mearas they would ride would be probably around 5, both just ready to start their training. By the time the prince was ready to fight, so would the Mearas and they would ride into battle together till the end of their days, or until the Prince became King, most likely.)
> 
> ...That was a very lengthy explanation, but it is the only thing that makes sense.
> 
> Also, the reason the timeline is so fluid is because Bilbo is so very out of it. It isn't me being lazy.
> 
> It took them a few days to get an Elvish mountain that is a close to direct route to Rivendell. Not the one the Dwarves took, or attempted to, but one that is near the Gladden River that I made up.
> 
> It takes slightly longer than a week to get through the mountain pass, because they have to fight snows and keeping Bilbo from getting sick.
> 
> Once through the mountains, it takes a few days to get to Rivendell.
> 
> I have a timeline. It is not an awesome timeline, but I have one.
> 
> Calithiliel means "Daughter of Moonlight" in Sindarin.
> 
> Legolas is very poetic, isn't he? He actually named her that because she was born on the night of the full moon and she was to be his, and he didn't care that she was a filly, she was his, "you promised Adar."
> 
> (I'm sorry, but with the angst of this chapter, I needed to cheer myself up, and this did.)
> 
> Hithon = "Fog/Mist Brother"  
> Noruines = "Sunny Maiden"  
> Thurinor = "Secret/Hidden One"  
> Maethon = "Battler/Fighter"


	4. Healing (PTSD, Graphic Nightmares Dealing with Death)

"Will he be all right?" Legolas asks the minute Lord Elrond steps out from the room that Bilbo was bundled away into and Elrond gives him a heavy look.

"As well as he can be, suffering from night-terrors as his mind tries to heal itself from the battle he should never have been part of, the heartache that comes from being abandoned by those he spent a quarter of the year, at least, traveling with, and the fact he was taken from Mirkwood to  _here_ with a broken left shankbone on _horseback_ ," Elrond answered, his tone disapproving at the last part, but Legolas stood before him, unashamed.

Instead, the Prince of Mirkwood awaited his answer.

Elrond sighed and stared at him. "I will tell you if you explain why you took such a dangerous journey in  _winter_ ," Elrond answered.

"Father thought something was wrong. Our best healers were keeping to the battlefield before Erebor, but he pulled one to check, but all they could tell was that Bilbo's leg was healing, and one of the healers said it felt a bit wrong. But Mirkwood Elves, while highly trained in the Healing Arts, our healers rarely tred into the magical aspects of it, keeping instead to herb lore, for the most part, with a faint hint of magic to help keep the process stable.  _The_ best had stayed to help the Princes-Under-the-Mountain, and the King-Under-the-Mountain, while chasing my father off so he would rest, and he does not have the training, despite having the raw power for it, and doesn't know his limits. Rivendell Elves, however, our well versed in  _all_ aspects of the Healing Arts, and Father told me to bring him here when he made his request for home, even though his home is in the opposite direction."

Legolas let his words settle in his own mind as he turned them over, feeling the weight of them even though they had already been spoken. He knew that Lord Elrond would understand and there was a soft sigh as he focused back on the room. “The bone was healing wrong. I had to rebreak and reset it before I braced it and one of the Elves helped me to replace it in the heavy plaster. He’s in agony, which is to be expected, but he’s…asleep. I would not call it restful,” Elrond answered and Legolas looked past Elrond at the door.

“Will…will he be all right?” Legolas asked.

“He’ll walk with a limp for the rest of his life, and there will be much pain, but Bilbo Baggins should pull through with little worry for his overall health,” Elrond answered.

Legolas glanced at the door again, wishing to ask, ‘will he ever walk on his own?’ but knowing he never could.

He didn’t have a right to know that before Bilbo.

“You may go to him, if you wish,” Elrond allowed.

“Thank you, my lord,” Legolas answered, with a small bow of respect before he hurried into Bilbo’s room of healing.

* * *

As winter made its way across Middle Earth, Bilbo remained more or less confined to the bed in his room.

It was not from any order of bed rest that Bilbo did so, but mostly due to the fact that he was uncomfortable with swinging his leg through the air as he hobbled on crutches.

Legolas was happy to sit and talk with Bilbo or walk with him through Rivendell’s halls, Elrond always quick to suddenly appear and join them, as if he were always free to do so, despite the fact both Bilbo and Legolas knew that he wasn’t.

When either Legolas or Elrond were not around, Bilbo soon found himself befriending Elladan and Elrohir, who were quiet lads, with hidden mischief in their eyes.

As Lord Elrond’s sons, they were expected to act a certain way around guests. Once they realized that Bilbo was more inclined to treat them as people, their mischievous nature leapt forth and soon they were showing up with Legolas, dragging the Prince of the Woodland Realm off to “prove that he truly was the best archer”, and Bilbo had to follow.

(Legolas won the archery contest.)

That night, Bilbo had a night terror of finding Legolas on the battlefield of early winter amongst the dead orcs and goblins and wargs, hair stained blood red and ink black, pierced by many Orc arrows, his bow broken in his hand.

He clings to his friend and sobs into his chest, thankful over and over that every member of his Family still lives, to his knowledge, for he has not the courage to write to Erebor and ask, for unRequited Bonds would tell him nothing of their state.

* * *

By the time winter has become spring, Elladan and Elrohir would join the body count of Bilbo’s night terrors, despite never being at the battlefield at all, becoming twentieth and twenty-first members of his Family.

Their father joined them the following night when Bilbo admitted to seeing the healer as one of his Family, bringing the total to twenty-two, especially after he saw the concern in Elrond’s gaze when the Elf admitted that he would prefer to keep Bilbo’s leg in the plaster for another month, unhappy with how far along the bone had healed.

In response to spring coming to Rivendell, however, Bilbo began to take longer walks, to the point that Legolas was able to convince Bilbo to come with him to the stables.

Upon entering the stables, Bilbo was greeted brightly by Myrtle, as well as the rest of the Company’s old ponies.

Myrtle was moved to the stall next to Calithiliel’s and, after the mares eye each other, decide they like each other well enough to not cause any problems.

(Bilbo wakes that night sobbing, his chest aching, for his dream was seeing his Family, even those still safe in the Shire, scattered across the blood and ink mud of the battlefield before Erebor, of seeing Drogo before Primula, and even young Frodo, slit and ripped open, everything jagged and painful, sharp, needle-sharp, pains shooting through his chest, because he can only comfort himself with Legolas, and Elladan, and Elrohir, but none of the others, and what if these aren’t entirely nightmares, but _truth_? What if he _has_ lost Family members while he has been away from his home?)

* * *

It is mid-summer when Elrond finally feels he can remove the plaster cast, smiling with pride at the fact the bone is fully healed, but the muscles in the left leg have completely atrophied. His left leg does not support his weight and Elrond begins to show him exercise he can do with his leg to build up the muscle strength and suggests training Myrtle so she can be mounted up on either side.

Elladan and Elrohir swear to help Bilbo with this, since they often help the warriors, and have gone through it themselves. Bilbo accepts their help, and would have even if they had not had an experience.

The process is slow and torturous. His muscles burn and agonize at the end of every day. Some days, his lower left leg will _burn_ in agony and he will have to nearly shred his lower lip to keep the sobs of pain in his chest, to not let them escape.

He grips his thigh and sometimes, his temper snaps and he shouts and throws pillows at Elladan and Elrohir, or, on a rare occasion, Legolas, because some days it is just so _frusterating_ because all of this muscle building seems to be going _nowhere_ and he’s had to been stopped twice by Elrond when he pushed too hard, too far too fast, and…

He _hates_ the muscle building because no matter how much he works on it, his leg only seems to get worse, not better, and Elrond says he can’t just fix Bilbo’s leg one-hundred percent, all the way, because that would make the bone brittle. Because in the end some things must heal on their own.

Some days, the three Elves drag Bilbo to the stables and get him to spend the day with Myrtle, instead of only part of the day.

On those full day excursions, they focus on retraining her to be mounted up on the right side, while showing Bilbo how he can mount up by hopping on his right leg and _leaping_ up, swinging his left leg over and sitting up.

Myrtle’s not fully retrained yet, so they mostly focuses on that.

On those days, those full days when it is just him, and the three Elves that are fast becoming friends in their own right instead of just friends with Bilbo, and the pain in his leg, Bilbo feels that everything is going to be okay.

But then another day of muscle building comes, and Bilbo feels like a failure once more.

(At least the nightly punishment of viewing his Family dead on a battlefield has stopped.)

* * *

Autumn passes much like summer, only with two main differences.

The first being the fact that he is _finally_ being able to lean on one crutch, instead of both, while taking two steps, then five, then he can go a corridor, and soon he’s hobbling along on one crutch as if he was born to it, measured to keep the weight on his left leg above the ‘collapsing in a pained heap’ level.

The second is his fifty-second birthday, which he celebrates in Hobbit fashion, giving carefully constructed gifts that Bilbo made with his own hands out of supplies Elrond gifted him on a day where he was kept to bed rest due to a _cold_ of all things.

Lord Elrond gets a set of handkerchiefs, each embroidered with cheerful, warm, spring scenes. Elladan gets a carefully braided leather rope that will help keep his scabbard from moving too much, something he complained about once. Elrohir was given a thin wooden bookmark, carefully smoothed down so as not to harm the pages, and carved with beautiful hunting scenes. Legolas is given a pendant made of wood to wear on the necklace he pretends not to have and it is a carefully varnished carving of a horse and a pony galloping side by side.

All four thank him and wish him a happy fifty-second birthday.

(He is glad they love his presents to them. He just wishes he was _home._ )

It is after his birthday passes that Bilbo’s eyes turn to the Shire.

The need to get there only increases as he masters how to mount up as the Elves taught him, and they teach him how to ride so he doesn’t jostle himself, or Myrtle, as much anymore.

He is slowly feeling _better_ , except when he remembers that he’s lost his home somewhere along the way, despite the fact the Shire holds three members of his Family, and four are _here_.

When he wakes up in the morning, sometimes, with his leg hurting too much to drag himself out of bed, unable to even think, let alone have a conversation, he has a hazy idea that maybe this is his punishment for giving the Arkenstone away.

When he rides, smooth and lilting, he will be all right anyway. Then he remembers that, no matter how good he feels on Myrtle’s back, he is definitely not the same Hobbit who left Bag-End a little over two years ago, and he never will be again.

When winter returns to Rivendell, Bilbo has graduated to a cane.

“You’ll never be able to be without it, Bilbo,” Elrond stated, one evening, when Legolas, Elladan, and Elrohir are off making trouble.

“I know,” Bilbo answered.

(Bilbo has accepted that the cane, and the nightmares, are both the price extracted for his Family being alive and whole, along with his punishment for betraying thirteen members of his Family, as well as his own Heart.)

(This acceptance doesn’t make it any easier to live with, however.)

* * *

In the east, over the Misty Mountains, through the Mirkwood, past a slumbering rebuilt Lake-town, beyond a mostly rebuilt Dale, is a lively Erebor.

It is lively, on this cold winter’s night, because it is bustling with excitement and whispers of the Dwarrows that live there. Because, _finally_ , after a _year_ of stillness, the moment every loyal citizen has been waiting for has come to pass.

Within the Royal Healing Chambers of Erebor, the un-Coroneted King-Under-the-Mountain, Thorin Oakenshield, son of Thrain, son of Thror, has begun stirring from his yearlong slumber.

The King (still uncrowned) that led them back to the mountain is waking up and _finally_ their Hero-King will sit upon the throne.

Twelve Dwarrows, however, stew in their worry over how to tell Thorin, not the leader of their Company, not the King, or the Prince, but the _Dwarf_ , that all any of the twelve know is that Bilbo Baggins was not among their dead and, to their knowledge, _none_ know where their Burglar now resides.

(They can only _hope_ that he made it safely back to the rolling green hills of his homeland and that the letters they have sent are unanswered because they are lost, not because their Burglar has no desire to write to them, not even to alleviate their worries for his health.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It is mentioned at one point that Elrond is a better healer than Glorfindel, despite Glorfindel being older.
> 
> My headcanon is magic.
> 
> Specifically that Elrond has more Healing Magic than Glorfindel.
> 
> On Myrtle and the other ponies being at Rivendell...I need them to be safe.
> 
> This is me comforting myself. (And I just love seeing Bilbo and Myrtle reunited.)
> 
> Also, I have gone through physical therapy before.
> 
> Admittedly, it was for a knee injury, but physical therapy is physical therapy and some things are going to be universal, such as feelings.
> 
> Bilbo's feelings during physical therapy, minus the nightmares, heavily reflect how I felt during my physical therapy.
> 
> There are days when I felt like an utter failure, because _I could do better_ was echoing through my head, often. It was more like that, through pushing myself too far, too hard, too fast, I would actually hurt myself.
> 
> I was eventually put on such severe restrictions that I had to have someone, a member of my support system, with a timer and when it went off, I had to stop.
> 
> Period, the end.
> 
> So...yay. I've shared.
> 
> But that's why I had to comfort myself with Myrtle.


	5. There is a Burning in my Skin (Realistic Recovery of Person in Coma as Best as I Can Portray it, and Severe Mood Swings)

Thorin awoke with pounding, racing thoughts, eyes wide and breathing rapidly.

The world was soft, and shadowed, and it  _shouldn't_ be, there should be bloodied rocks beneath him and light filling the air. He should be seeing sky and Azog bearing down on him, not stone overhead. He should be on the battlefield with Azog, he should be able to  _move_ and it feels as if he is imprisoned within himself and he can't move, Azog could be there, he  _needs_ Orcist, and he is trying to reach for it, but his hand can't seem to move and he can't shout, just make strangled sounds and his hand hits something, which flips over, something wet soaking his hand as whatever it is clatters to the ground, and exhaustion pulls at him as he struggles to move, to do  _anything_ but lie their  _uselessly_ and he feels that hit into his chest and his jaw grits in embarrassment as tears began to fall from his eyes.

It only gets worse when Balin enters his vision.

He is panting now, his confusion muddling his mind, and there is a gentle hand on his hair. "Easy, laddie, easy. You've had a bit of a sleep, but it'll be all right now," Balin soothed and exhaustion, mind numbing exhaustion, began to curl back through his brain, slowly cutting through his confusion, but not getting rid of it, and he struggles, he fights the exhaustion, tries to keep conscious, because he doesn't want to slip back into the darkness, doesn't want to return to sleep, and there is an ache, like a fine burn under his skin, and across it in places.

But he's slowly being pulled under, despite how he fights and he slips back into sleep.

* * *

It is a few days before everything fully settled in Thorin’s mind, the confusion slowly clearing as he accepted the events and understood his situation now, even if it made him flush in embarrassment, shame, and rage.

He had been asleep for a year, a deceptively hard blow to the head from Azog sending him there. He had been raging until it was explained the Azog was dead, some distance from where Thorin, Fíli, and Kíli had fallen.

Thorin had panicked then, before they managed to reassure him that the Princes had survived and would visit him when he was in a bit better condition to receive them. Both Fíli, and Kíli had suffered grievous injuries and would never fully be the same.

While Fíli had lost his left eye, the left side of his face now adorned with great curling scars, Kíli had lost his lower right leg, and his broken right wrist had healed correctly, but he had to restart on a beginner’s bow, his muscles no longer up to the task of drawing at his previous strength.

Both Balin and Óin had reassured Thorin that both had adjusted well in the year, though Fíli still had some slip ups with depth perception, Kíli having fun limping around on a prosthetic that he kept _insisting_ on “improving” and usually ended up jamming the mechanism and nearly sending himself tumbling down stairs.

Dís was ruling as regent in his stead and, while the people were happy, they were happier when Fíli and Kíli were with her and part of the decision making process, especially in the matters of Open Court, which was held once a week, as was tradition within Erebor.

Thorin was unspeakably proud of his sister and sister-sons at this knowledge, but…

He knew something was wrong.

Because of everyone they mentioned, they never spoke of Bilbo.

It sent dread curling through his chest, even as his hand shook violently when he pointed to runes that were short cuts to questions and numbers. His arm ached from the movement as he finally managed to tap _dead_ and _four_ _teen_.

His hand fell then, shaking and panting, the effort to move his arm almost completely draining him of all energy and silence fell as the question was processed through Balin’s mind.

“No, Master Baggins is not dead,” Balin answered.

Thorin tried to glare at his old friend, body trembling as he tried to force himself to sit up. He fought the exhaustion and burn in his muscles, but he could only lift his head slightly from the bed and he grit his teeth, trying to demand answers about _his_ Hobbit, _his_ Burglar, _his_ Bilbo, even though Thorin knew he had no right to call Bilbo that anymore, and the thought sent a rush of depression through him, knocking out the possessiveness and dragging sobs from his chest as he fell back, tears streaming down his face as embarrassment made his face go red.

Balin sighed and shared a look with someone outside of Thorin’s field of vision (probably Nori) and took a deep breath. “We don’t know _where_ Master Baggins is,” Balin continued.

Thorin let out a strangled bellow of rage, or as much of one as he possibly could when his vocal cords had gone a year without use, and he tried to fling something at Balin in his fury.

If he had the strength, he would have thrown himself at Balin in a rage, but he didn’t, so all it ended up being a struggle, another bowl of water clattering to the ground, followed by the muffled sound of a cloth joining the bowl and water on the ground. His limbs trembled from the effort that took, and he was panting as he tried to articulate _exactly_ how _infuriated_ he was with this loss.

His rage was an all-consuming _fire_ that erupted within his heart, hotter than any dragon fire and, once more, he is thrown into depression, collapsing against the bed in exhaustion, having it tug at his mind and eyelids once more, panting as more tears gather in the corners of his eyes.

Thorin has been told, many times, that this is to be expected.

That his emotions will be wild and out of control for a time, but that, one day, they won’t be so out of control that he will be kept from the crown for the safety of his people.

“Sleep for now, my king. You’ll need it,” Balin stated and before Thorin could fight his hand up, ask another question, he has slipped into darkness.

* * *

Thorin wishes he had the strength to throw something, _anything_ as an Elvish healer helps him to sit up with Dwalin amongst the pillows, shame burning across his face.

It doesn’t help that, outside the door, he can _hear_ King Thranduil chatting _amicably_ with Dís.

“You lost _another_ bowl to his rage?” Thranduil questioned.

“Yes. Balin still won’t tell me how it happened,” Dís responded, and Thorin growled lowly.

“Oh, good. I’m sure Master Dwalin will be happy to help you with vocal exercises. Try to keep from over-doing it, but I’m sure your head healer, Óin, will manage. We’ve been trading herb secrets, one for one,” the healer stated calmly, even as Balin’s voice carried through the door with a simple, “We told him we didn’t know where Bilbo Baggins was.”

“Rivendell,” came Thranduil’s immediate reply.

Thorin stiffened, and he turned his head, weakly, to the door.

“He stayed as my guest for a few weeks following the battle, before he left. We had sent word he was with us, but when no reply came, he could not stay,” Thranduil answered and Thorin immediately began to attempt to get out of bed.

Attempt because he truly didn’t have the strength.

Dwalin just chuckled as he, easily, held Thorin in place with one finger against Thorin’s opposite shoulder. “You don’t have the strength to get out of bed, Thorin,” Dwalin stated.

Thorin just bared his teeth at Dwalin in response.

* * *

Thranduil was not helpful in matters regarding Bilbo. He said that his son had taken the Hobbit to Rivendell, but he would not say why.

“Well?” Thorin managed to force out one day and Thranduil glanced at him.

“Well, enough,” Thranduil answered.

The King of Mirkwood did not ever clarify what that meant.

* * *

The muscle exercise were tests of his embarrassment threshold, he was sure, but somehow his sister-sons, Kíli clinking along as his metal hooked-up foot hit stone as he walked with a slightly unsteady gait, laughing as he held onto Fíli, subtly guiding his brother when he misjudged a distance, helped keep him calm.

It was spring when he took his first attempt at a step.

He clung to Dwalin’s arms, muscles feeling like liquid, and snapping at the slightest provocation, and sobbing as if he was mourning his grandfather and brother, in private, all over again when anything upset him.

As he worked on walking, he began to talk to Dwalin about the nightmares, of the battle, of seeing small little Bilbo being struck down by Azog.

As he talked, his mind healed in time with his body.

A year after he awoke, though he still shook when he exerted himself and Dori, the deceptively strong Dwarf that he was, kept at his side to be his living crutch if needed, Thorin, son of Thráin, son of Thror, was finally strong enough to go through the coronation. The crown was heavy, but he stood before his people.

(He didn’t stop the smile, or the tears, as the cheers of his people filled their ancient halls.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Part of the inspiration for Kíli to lose his right leg came from [this picture](http://kaciart.tumblr.com/post/44253191198) by Kaciart.
> 
> The rest came from me musing over what injuries the two brothers would have sustained.
> 
> The idea for him to be adjusted to a Hiccup-esque prosthetic limb comes from _How to Train Your Dragon_ , the movie, and Hiccup.
> 
> Because you know the Dwarrows would come up with something like that.
> 
> (For timeline help, this chapter _ends_ a little over two years after the Battle of Five Armies. It took him a year of physical therapy, and I am probably _shoving_ at the suspension of disbelief, for him to be healthy enough to go through the coronation.)
> 
> This is a lesson...I should not do math while exhausted. Thank you ferowyn for pointing out my mistake.


	6. The Return of Spring (Angst)

In Rivendell, the inhabitants were ignorant that the King-Under-the-Mountain had awoken and, as winter melted into spring, as said King began to work on his first step, Bilbo Baggins of the Shire quietly prepared Myrtle for her journey to her new home in the rolling green hills.

He would find a place for her, the one friend he met while with the Dwarrows that did not abandon him, there, where he could care for her. Maybe he would have to get a dog or a cat to help keep her company, for ponies were not meant to be alone.

No one was and his hand tightened briefly in her mane as grief swamped through him.

Myrtle gave him a comforting nicker and nudged him, drawing him back out into the smell of spring. He coughed and focused once more on tightening one of the pack behind her saddle. "You'll love Frodo, girl," he murmured as he began to pat her neck while leaning heavily on his cane.

"He's a good lad. You'll love his parents as well. They're a good sort, though Prim is wild, even for a Brandybuck, and she's got that quite unnatural love for water, wants to teach Frodo how to  _swim_ of all things, but she's got the right of it. Wears boots, too, but Frodo's got the Baggins' feet, which is a good thing. He lives west of the River, you know, and the more you stand out, the worse it is for you," he continues, calming himself with her words, smiling.

"Boots?" Legolas questions as he leads Calithiliel over to where Bilbo is mentally preparing himself to mount up.

Myrtle is standing as still as stone as Bilbo limps his way over to her right side while Bilbo nods. "Yes. I quite suspect that Brandybucks have Dwarf blood in them. They are hearty, with thick hair all over, from what we can see. Without fail, their menfolk grow beards, thick things that would have put Glóin to shame, if they would let them grow out. Sometimes there is even a fine down of it across the females' cheeks and over lip as well, but that certainly didn't stop Drogo from loving Prim with everything in his being. The Brandybucks, however, were all just a bit _too_ wild for me, as a whole, loud and boisterous. Very Dwarvish, the lot of them. All Stoors, that's the type of Hobbit the Brandybucks are mostly descended from, are like that," Bilbo answered with careful lightness as he leans on Myrtle instead of his cane and slides the cane into the holder.

He collects up the reins and Bilbo is bouncing on his right foot once, twice, and thrice before he's pushing off and he's on, giving the silent nudge to move once settled, settling his feet into the stirrups without looking down, all without jarring his left leg.

He's deeply proud of himself and guides Myrtle to where Legolas is waiting with Hithon, Elladan, and Elrohir, while the rest of Legolas's guard is gearing up to return to Mirkwood, Hithon's duty as Legolas's personal guard overriding his desire to return to their home and help protect it.

Bilbo thinks he wants to avoid telling Thranduil that Legolas is not returning to Mirkwood until after he's reassured himself that Bilbo is going to be fine.

Elladan and Elrohir find it amusing, but they are riding their chestnut geldings with similar glances towards Bilbo, as if they could, they would remain in the Shire with Bilbo for the rest of the Hobbit's days, but Bilbo knows they would miss Rivendell too much to do so.

Bilbo pats Myrtle's neck and glances at his travelling companions. "Ready, Master Baggins?" Hithon questioned.

"Yes," Bilbo answered and, turned back to wave once more at Elrond, who had been joined by an Elf with golden hair that rivaled  _Fíli's_ at the foot of the steps.

“You are always welcome here, Bilbo Baggins, Elf-Friend,” Elrond stated and Bilbo gave a respectful bow from Myrtle’s back, responding with a gentle, “May I return one day for better tidings.”

Elrond nodded in agreement and with that, they rode off, Bilbo in the pseudo-lead as he began to take them down the East-West road.

* * *

“Why are we going this way again?” Elladan asked a few hours later when Bilbo realized they were near the stone Trolls.

“There’s a troll hoard this way with Elvish blades in it. Well, had Elvish blades. And, from how Bofur spoke of it, had some treasure in it. With how long I was gone, I have to bring apology gifts, or get them in the Shire. I missed quite a few weddings while missing, you know,” Bilbo responded, Myrtle treading easily, as light on her feet as the Elvish horses his companions rode.

“You mean like Sting?” Elrohir questioned.

After telling Legolas, Elladan, and Elrohir the story of his travels (heavily edited, truly, not even close to the full truth, only speaking of great deeds and bravery beyond anything, not the _people_ and the quiet nights around the fire, and the laughter, and the _Family_ , just the _Company_ , and they were not the same), they had snuck Sting to their forges and had the brave deeds of the blade carefully etched into the blade, winding along the curl already there.

“Orcrist was found there. So was Gandalf’s sword,” Bilbo responded calmly.

Elladan’s low whistle of appreciation had Myrtle’s ears lying flat against her head in irritation, along with Bilbo’s own ears twitching in sympathy pain. “Well, might be worth the smell,” Elrohir continued.

Legolas laughed at that and Bilbo resisted the urge to roll his eyes.

They were children, the lot of them. “They’ll never leave you alone about it now, Master Baggins,” Hithon warned.

“We’re heading that…ah, there are the trolls,” Bilbo responded and smiled as they rode into the clearing to the sight of three stone trolls.

Hithon stared in surprise at the sight while Bilbo freed his cane from the holder before he focused on dismounting, carefully, and always making sure to keep from putting direct weight onto his left leg before he began to limp forward, toward the cave.

Hithon stayed behind while Legolas, Elladan, and Elrohir followed after Bilbo.

Bilbo, who recoiled slightly as the smell assaulted him. “How does it get _worse_?” Bilbo questioned.

“Troll,” Legolas responded with a shrug, before he began to put together torches, and leading the way in.

Bilbo ignored the Dwarvish rune, hidden in the gloom, that marked where something was buried (he had seen Bofur and the others do it on the trip when they thought him asleep, and later when he had not been, though what they were burying, Bilbo had never known), and instead noticed that it was, for the most part, untouched.

 _Mostly_ untouched because he was looking for…

Ah-hah, there it was.

Bilbo smiled as he, carefully, tugged a chest out of the gloom, and opened it to reveal that it had, mostly, coins. “Legolas, have you found a sword for Hithon yet?” Bilbo asked, startling the three, who were eyeing the collected swords, a few of Elvish make, which disturbed them greatly.

Bilbo could understand, for his nightmares clung to him still, and he didn’t think he could ever fully hold Sting again without thinking of all he had done with the small blade.

“Yes. None are of the same renown as Orcist or Glamdring, but they will serve him well,” Legolas answered.

“Good. Help me carry this to Myrtle? I have some a few purses I would rather fill than cart around this trunk that smells of troll,” Bilbo answered and Legolas picked it up.

Myrtle gave him a sharp glare when she saw the trunk, but Bilbo just collected some empty purses from his pack and Myrtle was much more agreeable to that.

Once back on her back, he waited patiently for Elladan and Elrohir.

Bilbo is not surprised that they dragged every sword they could out and spread the weight equally between them, wrapping them in their bedrolls to hide them from sight.

* * *

The return to the Shire was simple and calm. They rode at a marching pace, Elladan and Elrohir mindful of the history they carried with them and Bilbo with a mind to get to the Shire and collapse in his bed.

A storm was coming, because his leg ached furiously and he clung tighter to Myrtle’s mane the longer they rode, the pony being very considerate of the tightening.

It was mid-spring when hooves began clopping across the Brandywine Bridge, Bilbo in the lead, when a shout, loud and joyous, came to the left of the bridge.

“Uncle Bilbo!”

Bilbo looked over and smiled, bright and unwavering as he urged Myrtle over to where Frodo was running up the hidden path from near the riverbank, and Bilbo’s stopping and he dismounts as the black haired, blue-eyed, Baggins-Brandybuck comes running over to him, mud staining his hands and feet.

Bilbo’s leg gives out, because he forgets that it can no longer support his weight (that he can no longer pick Frodo up and swing him around) and he collapses to the ground, smiling as the boy, “his” little Frodo just speeds up when he sees his dearest “uncle” fall to the ground, crashing into him, careful of the left leg (because he’s observant, and he can _tell_ ) and they fall to the ground as Frodo clings to him, a boy who is nearing his ninth birthday, though he is small (even for a faunt), he’s close to a Man’s child mentally and emotionally in equivalence, but it won’t stay that long for long and probably looks much too young to the Elves.

“I knew you weren’t dead. Mean ole’ Lobellia was _wrong_ ,” Frodo insisted softly as Bilbo carefully sits up while still holding onto Frodo, panting softly.

“Dead?” Bilbo questioned, dread filling his heart.

Before Frodo can clarify, a panicked Primula, shouting Frodo’s name with Drogo come barreling up from the same hidden path from the riverbank.

They see the Elves first, and _then_ they see Bilbo.

Primula shouts with joy, followed closely by Drogo and Myrtle steps, carefully over Bilbo’s left leg, preventing accidents, her eyes brighter, more intelligent, after her stay with the Elves.

Bilbo is back on the ground with his cousins clinging to him tightly, laughing brightly, Primula kissing Frodo’s head, then Bilbo’s, and Drogo is hugging them all, somehow.

It is wonderful and heartwarming, and Bilbo is sure that he’s a sight when he’s helped up, after, by Legolas when the other two scramble up, Frodo just inching away, their confusion showing until their eyes widen when Legolas, still supporting Bilbo’s weight, hands him the cane from the spot.

“So…dead?” Bilbo questioned.

* * *

Bilbo knows, deep down, he could buy Bag-End from Lobelia. He could haggle out a price, but he sees that panic in her eyes, and he _can’t_.

For all her faults, Lobelia has made a home in Bag-End, and she’s terrified she’s about to lose it.

And he spent _months_ (which felt like _years_ , for how much that time changed him) risking life and limb and _more_ to give people he loved, the Dwarrows he called _Family_ , their home back. The fact he’s come back to find his lost (or as much of a home he had here), he finds that he cannot take that from her.

“As you’ve been proven alive, you could haggle back Bag-End, regain your mother’s wedding gift from your father,” the Thain of the Shire (Ferumbras Took, the Third, now, which made Bilbo’s heart ache that he had missed the passing of one he knew so well) stated when they got to the final, and most important in Bilbo’s heart (surrounded by the obvious love his parents’ had for each other, even when it hurt, had soothed old pains for as long as he had been under the Hill) item that Bilbo had to decide if he was going to fight for now.

(Primula and Drogo had all his books and maps, as well as the quilts his parents’ had made together, Drogo knowing which to grab, and his mother’s Westfarthing plates as well, but most everything else he’s had to _buy_ , which pains him almost as much as what he’s about to say is going to.)

“I can’t,” he stated, voice cracking slightly, agony slicing through his heart at giving up Bag-End, and Legolas, who refused to be left outside, squeezes Bilbo’s shoulder while Primula turns on him, all Brandybuck (almost Dwarvish) possessive rage.

“Your father built that _for_ your mother! How can you let them keep it?” Primula demanded and Bilbo lets out a shaky sigh before he stares at his leg.

“I left Bag-End, the Shire, you, Drogo, _Frodo_ , without notice to help thirteen Dwarrows get their home back. I will not let my return to the Shire be marked by taking someone’s home from them!” Bilbo whispered softly, directly at Primula, his pain seeping through before he focuses on his feet, gripping his cane tightly with both hands, willing the tears to remain in his eyes.

He does not see the way Lobelia startles and looks away from him, knowing that he should be walking into his Auction Day, that one year of being missing is not enough, but he had no friends, no Family, except a Brandybuck who married a Baggins and that Baggins and their child to defend his empty property. He also does not see the way Legolas leveled his ancient, heavy, gaze at Lobelia that made her shift in her seat while chewing on the inside of her cheek while turning away from Bilbo.

He does not see, but Primula does.

She glares at Lobelia, pouring her rage into the glare before she tears her eyes away, and then she squeezes Bilbo’s wrist gently.

“Okay. Well, till you find a smial, you’ll just have to stay with Drogo, Frodo, and I! Not so many steps anyway,” she stated and Bilbo smiles at her.

“Thank you Prim,” Bilbo responded softly and Primula leaned down and gave him a kiss to the cheek.

“It is what Family does, Bilbo, you know that,” Primula answered and stood up normally.

The Thain nods and Primula takes Bilbo’s cane when he can’t rise, his strength having fled him in the wake of losing Bag-End, of the home his father had built for his mother. Legolas asks before lifting him up, explaining that Bilbo was injured saving a friend, a dear friend, and no one says anything against Adventuring.

No one has the courage to under the baleful glare of Primula Brandybuck.

(Later, when Bilbo is tucked into the “guest” bedroom that is practically stuffed with his books and maps, the quilt his mother and father had made for him on his twentieth birthday spread over him, feeling light and airy thanks to the pain draught Primula gave him, he breaks into tears. For he’s lost the thing that truly tied him to his parents and constantly surrounded him and he can never get it back.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *gives a grin that would shame a Cheshire Cat*
> 
> I almost wish I could say that I regret this. However, at the same time, someone on LiveJournal insisted on "promises, promises" when I warned for angst cake.
> 
> *smile grows bigger*
> 
> Did I keep my promises?
> 
> (On the Brandybucks, and Stoor Hobbits, having Dwarf blood in them is something that is headcanon, as it is mentioned that "they have thick beards and looks most like Men". I thought it more likely that one, or a bit more, fell in love with and married a Dwarf. It is also mentally backed by the fact that, of all the families, Brandybucks are the most warrior-like, with Tooks a close second. And I prefer to think of Fae-blood as meaning actual Fae and Fae can be _brutal_.)
> 
> (Also, how Bilbo mounts up is like in horse vaulting. Once, twice, thrice, up and over. Doing this while standing still is harder than when the horse, or in this case pony, is moving.)
> 
> (Also...smashing of timelines. I _know_ it wasn't Ferumbras Took III who was Thain when Bilbo returned, but Frodo's here, and he's not a incredibly young, so I need to edit people and ages. So...*sighs* But, this means Hamfast Gamgee and Sam, so there's that.)


	7. The Most Peaceful and Beautiful Prison in all of Middle-Earth (possible OOCness)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologize slightly for this chapter, in that there is some OOCness, probably. I don't think so, personally, because of how I view a certain character, but I know not everyone will share my feelings, so...playing safe. Possible OOCness in this chapter.

The rain that Bilbo's leg had predicted came in the night, with a chill that clung to the world the next day to the point where he couldn't eat and Frodo clung to his arm the entire time, staring up at him with sky blue eyes, when Primula herded him back to bed, in agony and limping badly as another rainstorm began above before she made him a mug of tea.

It wasn't enough to cover the pain tonic she had splashed in and he drank it all before sinking into the pillows, Primula covering him with the blankets and Frodo scrambling up to settle against his side, Legolas joining the pair, somehow, as Bilbo tiredly recounted the scene with the Trolls, toning down his own part in the adventure (as he always did, for what did a Hobbit have to contribute to such a quest?). He was sure they made an odd picture on the Hobbit-sized bed, a middle-aged bachelor Hobbit who had lost his Heart to a King and a too small faunt (not through any lack of food, for Frodo ate as much as one twice his size) with an Elf prince curled around them, listening to the adventures of a rather silly Hobbit.

Ran out the door without his handkerchief, and that's a grand thing to forget.

His voice would hitch slightly over the words when the pain would slice through his pain tonic induced fog and Legolas would murmur in Sindarian when it happened, before he relaxed into sleep, Frodo still pressed to his right side and Legolas curled around them as best as he could.

* * *

It is lunchtime when Bilbo awakens, but also when Primula and Drogo get their first visitor of the day they are willing to admit into their home. “Mister Gamgee!” Primula exclaimed in surprise as she opened the door to the damp gardener of Bag-shot Row, a good walk away.

“Come in, come in, we’re just sitting down for luncheon! Please, join us!” Primula greeted as she gently tugged the man in, smiling at the way he stumbled to wipe his feet off on the mat, before he easily walked in.

“I heard Master Baggins has returned,” he stated as he shut the door behind him while Primula hung his coat up on one of the hooks.

She frowned a bit and nodded.

Hamfast smiled in relief and hesitated before he looked at her. “Can I see him?” Hamfast asked.

“He’s…out of it, Master Gamgee,” Legolas cut in softly and Hamfast turned, only to gape at how Legolas carefully bent to avoid hitting anything as he smiled gently at Hamfast.

“The weather and chill is causing his leg to ache, and the pain tonic makes him groggy, but he has missed you so. I almost thought you were family, from the way he spoke of you, but I think it not the case now that I have met you, though not in a bad way. From what I have met of Bilbo’s blood kin, I have found them wanting, with three exceptions and all live in this smial,” Legolas stated and Primula flicked him on the back of the hand, since she couldn’t reach his nose.

“Stop being rude and go sit at the table!” she demanded and Legolas gave a respectful bow before he walked to the dining room where the rest of the smial-hold, omitting Bilbo who was still abed, waited at the table.

He listened as Hamfast went to visit Bilbo, quiet murmurs floating out, but no sounds of distress, from Bilbo at least, so Legolas focused on the table, smiling gently over Frodo complaining about not being able to stay with Uncle Bilbo.

When luncheon was over, Hamfast joining them about halfway through at Primula’s insistence, Legolas carefully unfolded from the ground, giving his thanks and his good-byes before he headed back into Bilbo’s bedroom, Frodo running ahead of him with a quick, though polite, “good day and hope to see Sam soon!”

* * *

It was a week after Hamfast’s visit before Bilbo left the smial without Legolas close at his heels.

The tall Elf had followed Bilbo everywhere, once the cold rains had passed, walking amongst the stalls in the marketplace, Frodo running from Bilbo to the next stall eagerly, smiling in delight and gasping in awe of the stories Bilbo told of how Bifur could make any toy imaginable, and some not so imaginable, which had Frodo eagerly babbling out strange and new ideas that had Bilbo laughing brightly and Legolas smiling.

But because Legolas was never far from Bilbo, and Elladan and Elrohir (nor Hithon, though he was near unapproachable) know nothing, Primula could not ask the question that itched at her brain. She encouraged the weekend camping expedition with Bilbo, Elladan and Elrohir, along with Frodo, and Drogo helped make sure everything Frodo might need was packed.

The quartet was looking eager to set out, Frodo sitting before Elrohir on his horse, Bilbo smiling and promising to watch out for Frodo and the four left behind at the smial waved until they were out of sight, heading for the Tookborough and the lands there that were a bit wild.

Once back inside, Primula turned to Legolas. “What happened?” she demanded of him, for she was sure the blond Elf _must_ know.

“Prim,” Drogo warned, even as Legolas let his infinitely old eyes rest on her.

“A mace. A mace to the leg, specifically, because he did something out of love, with a great deal of courage mixed in measure. Bilbo Baggins will bear his limp, and walk with his cane, _trapped_ within this prison of rolling green hills and vicious gossips with their poisonous words just as his wanderlust has been awoken, because he gave his loyalty, his honor, and his willing heart, not to mention his love, to the wrong person, who cast him aside as if he were _garbage_ , and he will _have_ that limp for the rest of his days to show for it, and with that, by your Shire’s standards, will _this_ be price enough for his Adventuring?” Legolas questioned, his voice level, but angry.

“Legolas!” Hithon scolded, but Drogo answered with a simple, “Yes. If they knew that, it would.”

Legolas gave a dark smile at that and nodded. “But he won’t. Not now, not ever,” Legolas added quietly and carefully sat down, while Hithon looked away.

“How do you know, what happened?” Primula asked, sitting across from the quiet Legolas, whose guilt seemed to lie upon his shoulders like a visible weight.

“I wouldn’t, if I had not been there, on the battlefield, for I saw the way he appeared out of nowhere and drew the Pale Orc away from the one he loved and I saw him fell the creature of nightmares, and I saw the mace crash into his leg and for all that I tried, I could not save him this pain. And for that, I will never forgive myself and the only reason I am not dragging him at least back to Rivendell is because it would cause him more pain if I did so, despite the fact I do not think this place will be good for him.”

Primula quietly nodded in agreement and Drogo answered, “Shire Hobbits don’t like adventures, for the most part. Brandybucks are odd enough, and Tooks will always wander, but they always come home to roost. And Bilbo now looks to the East, always, with the Longing I had thought dead since we settled here after our Wandering Days, if our history lessons are anything to go off of at least.”

Legolas stood at that, and left.

Hithon watched him go and for once did not follow.

(When Bilbo returned with the other three, Frodo gleefully recounting their days with his distant Took cousins, and even Brandybuck cousins, he never suspected Legolas’s severe dislike of the Shire-folk as a whole, nor of the fact that his Family present before him thought he was locking himself into a beautiful prison to live out his days in agony while festering away within the borders of this peaceful place by the injuries he sustained in a battle that was not his. And none of them had the heart to confront him over it. He was in enough pain and they would just have to help him be comfortable.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It has already been established that Bilbo is not the most reliable of narrators.
> 
> This is my explanation of why the book and the movies are basically two different things.
> 
> Because they are and I really don't begrudge Peter Jackson that because the book, as it is written, would not make an interesting movie, at least not one of Hollywood length, unless they were going to make another cartoon.
> 
> Because the book a story you would tell children; scary enough to make them appreciate that the world can be scary, but filled with hope and light over-all.
> 
> The movies are kind-of the truth behind the story. (And I kind-of wish Tolkien had fully rewritten _The Hobbit_ to be more inline with _The Lord of the Rings_ , but at the same time it allows us to speculate about the truth behind the story we've all read, much like how Peter Jackson and the writers there have done.)
> 
> But, yeah. Bilbo flat out cut his parts out of the story, and played himself down till he couldn't get away with it.
> 
> (Also...Legolas is a protective little bastard and I think every Hobbit who has been whispering nasty things about Bilbo is lucky they aren't permanently injured. And he refused to let this chapter conclude till he got to vent his feelings about Bilbo's situation since he won't vent them at Hithon and can't at Bilbo, because Bilbo is bearing enough pain.)


	8. The Smials of Tookbank

It was nearly three months after returning to the Shire and proving he was alive that Ferumbras Took, Thain of the Shire, called upon the small smial of Drogo and Primula Baggins with the request to see Bilbo in one week’s time.

Primula wanted to chase him down the road with a broom, but with the Dwarf caravan from the newly reclaimed Erebor heading to the Blue Mountains and keeping the Great East Road (or the East-West Road as Hobbits prefered to call it) so crowded that there was no room to stop if one stumbled into the road by accident kept her still while Drogo looked ready to shake his head in disagreement. “Drogo, I am head of the Baggins family, not you,” Bilbo cut in suddenly and all three looked to the voice, only to see that it must have been a blessing from the Green Lady that Bilbo had spoken loud enough to be heard, let alone _speaking_ with how he looked.

For Bilbo Baggins was leaning heavily against the wall of the smial, shaking and nearly panting, having fought pain tonic and Frodo to get there, not to mention his own body.

Drogo and Primula parted so Ferumbras could fully address Bilbo and Bilbo took a deep and shaky breath, his hand tightening on his cane to a white knuckle grip as he focused entirely on the Thain.

“I will see you in one week’s time Thain,” Bilbo agreed and Ferumbras gave a small, polite, bow, before he turned and mounted up on his black gelding and rode off.

“Bilbo!” Primula hissed.

“He would just come back again if I said no. Best to get it over with now,” Bilbo whispered and then, shaking and pained, made his way back to bed, Frodo following worriedly after him like a duckling after a mother duck.

Bilbo didn’t leave his room until the next afternoon.

(Neither did Frodo.)

* * *

Bilbo stared at Ferumbras Took, Thain of the Shire, Primula on one side and Drogo on the other, protectively framing him, wondering if he had heard the Hobbit right. "What?" Bilbo questioned softly.

"There's a smial, in Tookbank, that is in good condition and has a lean-to for the pony you aren't selling. It is quiet, and close enough to the Tookborough that Frodo will still be able to interact with children his own age. It is reasonably priced and in good condition," Ferumbras repeated.

“It is also large enough to house all sorts of odd folk who chose to visit an adventurer and his small Family,” Ferumbras continued calmly.

“There are no smials like that in the Tookbank that are without occupants,” Bilbo responded softly.

“Yes there is,” Ferumbras responded pointedly, though he wasn’t looking at Bilbo.

“So, we could move there as well?” Drogo questioned and Bilbo realized what was being said.

“Drogo, don’t,” Bilbo begged softly.

“You can’t be alone, Bilbo. And the Elves won’t stay forever, though Legolas seems sorely tempted, and we won’t leave you to live alone, with only the pain in your leg and memories to keep you com…to surround you. And Family doesn’t do that,” Drogo responded softly, gently.

He was such a gentle soul, Drogo, but more in Bungo’s way than Bilbo’s, for even Bilbo admits he is far gentler, for all his adventurous ways, than Bungo ever was.

It is something that would surprise others, but Bilbo had never killed anything, not even a fly, before the Fell Winter and, the Warg that impaled itself on his sword, and then the Orc that he killed to save Thorin were the first two things he had killed _since_ the Fell Winter. After that Orc it had been those Spiders of Mirkwood and conspiracy to insure the death of a dragon after _that_ , and then in the Battle…

He had killed to save his Family, for it was the Fell Winter all over again, except with one key difference, that key difference being the fact he _succeeded_ , unlike in the Fell Winter, when he had _failed._

Because in the Battle of Five Armies, Bilbo Baggins of the Shire had protected his Family instead of feeling them die, like back in the Fell Winter, when his Family had gone from being a respectable size for a Hobbit, to two.

His parents.

It was his curse, really, choosing Family that would die when the river froze, warriors to the core, far too Dwarvish or too Adventerous and he lost them all to wolves or Orcs and he had mourned them, losing his Family entirely by age 34, until he met little Prim and then Drogo and he accepted them full-heartedly into his Family, but could not bear to make it more.

And then it grew to three, then sixteen, then seventeen, then nineteen, and, finally twenty-two.

It had grown so suddenly because of this Quest, and that frightened him.

Because he almost lost his entire Family in one fell swoop again, and now he was being offered a Smial that wasn’t going to fit his Family, and no one would ever know.

“I know, Drogo, but I can’t take you from your home,” Bilbo whispered, his voice cracking over the word and he covered his face with a hand, trying to gain control of his emotions.

“Bilbo…home is where your heart resides, where Family lives, and where love blooms. It won’t be home without you,” Primula stated.

Bilbo both cried and smiled at her words, before aggreeing to go look at the smial.

* * *

Myrtle was at ease pulling the cart Bilbo had borrowed from Hamfast’s relations, eyeing the smial in the Tookbank.

The smial was older, nestled in the hill on the western side of the path to the Tookborough, that overlooked the path in fact, and it was one Bilbo knew.

Drogo wouldn’t, he wasn’t a Took, and neither would Prim, for her mother was happy to keep to Brandyhall.

It had once been owned by the Old Took and, back then, it had a small lean-to for two ponies. Now, it had a _stable_ , small enough to be hidden by the hills of Tookbank, but large enough to hold six horses, not ponies, and the fence line had expanded as well, the only smial on this side, a mark of the Old Took, really, so he could watch after those around him.

Bilbo, in the driver’s seat of the cart, knew what he was staring at and his shocked gaze was due to the changes.

Prim and Drogo, who were seated in the back of the cart, were gaping in awe over his shoulders, Drogo making a low whimper sound while Prim tried to voice something, anything. Next to the trio of adult Hobbits, Frodo sat before Legolas on Calithiliel, staring at the smial. “ _This_ is for sale?” Frodo questioned, staring at the gentle sloping path that went from the front door of smial to the gate, the Hobbit gate, while the gate meant for the equines was off to the side, neatly hidden behind a flowering tree, for the most part.

It was ideal, for the Bilbo Baggins before the Adventure.

Now, it was just a reminder of what he no longer was and it hurt, but he knew Ferumbras hadn’t meant it that way, for on the back of his black gelding he was looking anxiously at Bilbo. “Drogo, I’ll need help down. My leg’s stiffening up,” Bilbo stated as he carefully tied Myrtle’s reins to the proper spot, while Drogo hopped out the back, swinging Prim down before he helped Bilbo down, supporting his weight as Bilbo got the cane free and began to limp to Myrtle’s head, smiling when she pushed her nose, gently into his shoulder.

With that, he headed toward the gate that Legolas had already opened, and Myrtle followed before he walked into the stable, unhooking her from the cart and untacking her, Drogo helping him hang everything up before Bilbo shoved Myrtle out into the field to join the Elvish horse.

He watched the pair rush around a bit before he followed Frodo’s gentle tug on his hand and began to limp over to where Ferumbras was waiting to open it up.

It has been cleaned and aired in preparation for their visit. He limped through, smiling over the room that he knew to have been the room the Old Took had built for Bungo, a study that was emptied upon the Old Took’s death. “Oh…the bathing room is beautiful,” Primula breathed and Bilbo smiled at everything, before he turned to Ferumbras, Frodo clinging to Bilbo’s side while Legolas stayed outside the room itself.

“Bilbo?” Ferumbras questioned.

“How much?” Bilbo asked.

Ferumbras shook his head and glanced down at Frodo. Bilbo hesitated and then tapped Frodo’s head.

“Go tell your parents to pick their room and yours,” he stated.

“But…”Frodo protested softly.

“Please?”

Frodo frowned and then walked out of the room, hesitating at the doorway, eyes narrowing briefly, before he turned around and ran out. “Mama, Papa!” Frodo called and they waited for feet to scamper away, Bilbo’s ears twitching when he heard Legolas’s breath shallow in that way it did when he was hiding.

“If I asked a thing for this, I would eat my own tongue. We failed you. Your blood family failed you, spectacularly. We can’t give you back Bag-End, you’d never take it. But we can make sure that there is a place for you,” Ferumbras stated.

“I can’t take this place,” Bilbo responded.

“You’re not taking it. It is a gift and it is rude to not accept gifts,” Ferumbras stated.

He then gave a small smile and added, “And if you don’t accept it, my mother will have my head.”

Bilbo smiled and gave a nod. “Well, I accept your gift. Excuse me while I see what room as been left for me. Though I claim this study,” he stated and limped out, smiling when he heard Ferumbras let out an undignified sound when Legolas slipped out of the shadows and followed after Bilbo, easily ducking under the archways.

“We’ll make a Hobbit of you yet in the ways of stealth Legolas,” Bilbo stated and Legolas laughed, a surprised note touching the tone when Frodo suddenly jumped up onto Legolas, grabbing his arm as if he had appeared out of the woodwork itself.

“I think that would be a great and wise thing to be, Bilbo,” Legolas admitted and carried Frodo under one arm, the faunt laughing brightly as the Prince of Mirkwood tickled Frodo’s sides.

(Those of the Shire called it the Great Move, the Head of the Baggins family, Bilbo Baggins, moving to Tookbank, with three of his Family and Elf guests at their heels, all their things stacked up in great carts and Hamfast Gamgee with his young children, first-born Samwise, who was a tad younger than Frodo, yet taller, went as well to a smaller place that was bigger than their home in Hobbiton, his wife gleeful over the large yard and greater customers that surrounded them, but most especially Bilbo, who she hugged as if he were a long-lost brother come home instead of her husband’s employer and proclaimed him Family, making Bilbo’s Family quite large indeed, for a Hobbit, though only Bilbo knew the number, and had laughed through his tears for it.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bilbo has moved to Tookbank and is now surrounded mostly by distant cousins, and Hamfast moving snuck up on me, but I realized that he wouldn't stay near the Sackville-Baggins, as it is my headcanon that Hamfast became good friends, and was incredibly loyal to, Bilbo Baggins, especially since Bilbo Baggins always treated him well and refuted everything Hamfast ever said against himself.
> 
> Also, I don't care what canon says, my brain _always_ has me killing off Bilbo's parents for some reason when he is young. His father from before he was of age, and Belladonna after he was of age, clinging on for Bilbo.
> 
> Also...Bilbo's Family consisted of Brandybucks and Tooks, and while I ignore "Fae" being slang for "Efl", at the same time, the fact Bilbo's Family of his Tween years was mainly made of Brandybucks and Tooks and his Family now is mainly made of Dwarves and Elves, I thought it would be an adorable nod to that where his Tween Family mirrors his Adult Family.
> 
> (Angst. Cake.)
> 
> (Also, for an idea of where Bilbo, Primula, Drogo, and Frodo all now live, with Hamfast Gamgee and his family, and most of his Family, is [here](http://tolkiengateway.net/w/images/7/70/Map_Middle-Earth_A_Part_of_the_Shire.jpg).


	9. Early Birthday Presents

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologize, by the way, for the possibly rambleness of this chapter.
> 
> It would write no other way.
> 
> Also...I am still woozy from my wisdom teeth being removed yesterday. (So there is that. I should probably not write while in this state. But...tell that to my brain.)

"When do you leave?" Bilbo asked Hithon as he brushed Myrtle's coat in the cool of the end of summer.

"Soon," Hithon answered cautiously.

"It would be best to leave before mine and Frodo's birthday. He's already finished his presents for all of you. I'll see about getting you some dried fruits and meat for the journey," Bilbo responded and smiled as he leaned on Myrtle as he made his way around her and, carefully, leaned against her so he could look after her front right hoof.

Hithon was silent and Bilbo slowly stood up, holding onto Myrtle before he glanced back at Hithon. "What?" Bilbo questioned.

"You're...you're being quite calm about this," Hithon stated.

"I suspect that a few years down the line, Legolas will return with you at his heels, always the protector...the more than that as well, or wish to be. Around here, such a match would not be accepted. Is it the same among Elves?" Bilbo responded and smiled when Hithon choked on air.

He coughed some and added, “No. Not at all. We love as we love, and usually we can adopt a child that needs a family. But his gaze has never fallen on me in that manner. And I would not burden him with such. And his father would kill me if he knew.”

“Thranduil wouldn’t kill you. Torment you and make you wish for death, yes, but not actually kill you,” Bilbo stated as he continued to clean out Myrtle’s hooves, slowly and with shaky precision, before he left the stall, collecting his cane and the chestnut pony with the white blaze following after to him to where Myrtle’s tack remained.

He then began to tack Myrtle up and, once reassured that the saddle wouldn’t be sliding off and around, he mounted up quickly as he had been taught, sliding the cane into the holster. “Now, I am heading to Tookborough with Frodo. He wants his own pony and Myrtle will need a friend, so I am riding over. I’ll leave you to talk to Legolas about leaving. Elladan and Elrohir will just need to hear the word “orcs” and will go running in the direction you point them in,” Bilbo stated and began to ride out of the stable.

“Frodo, time to go,” Bilbo stated and slipped his right foot from the stirrup as Frodo rushed over.

Bilbo reached down and helped Frodo up, settling him in front of him before he smiled and nodded at where Drogo was working on a bench ordered by the Thain out of the way, while Primula watched them head out. “Maybe I should get a third pony?” he questioned and Primula nodded in agreement.

“A good sturdy cart pony. Myrtle is a good all-purpose pony, but Drogo will need a pony built to pull carts. And get all geldings,” Primula stated.

“Prim, I grew up half-Took. I know ponies. Make sure Elladan and Elrohir don’t get into Farmer Maggot’s crop,” Bilbo stated as he made sure Frodo was comfortable before he began to head toward Tookborough, ignoring Prim’s mutter of, “I am not their mother and I will do no such thing.”

* * *

Bilbo eyed the way Myrtle eyed the geldings she had been settled near. Frodo had liked the looks of a fine dapple gray pony, but Bilbo knew that was not the pony for Frodo.

For one, the gelding was _far_ too high-strung for a beginner such as Frodo and for another, Myrtle had already bitten the dapple.

Twice.

He was removed by two of Bilbo’s cousins and Frodo had pouted at that, before going back to watching, holding onto Bilbo’s free hand. His eyes darted around the geldings, the higher strung ones being led away without Bilbo having to say a thing.

Myrtle had seemed to become taken with a pony that was pure black, with feathering along his legs and Bilbo nodded to him. “That one,” Bilbo stated and the breeder nodded, the pony easily being led out to join Myrtle in the side field, the gelding slightly taller than Myrtle, but would be a better fit for the cart that was in the stables than the plucky mare, who was very much a one-Hobbit pony and disliked obeying anyone but Bilbo.

The black pony with feathering was the perfect cart pony.

There were a couple that Myrtle was sniffing, a pale gray pony that stood at Myrtle’s height and seemed to be of athletic riding stock from the craggy moors, along with a bay stickily built pony that looked like the ugliest equine Bilbo had ever set eyes on were pulled over into Myrtle’s side paddock.

Two more grays were pulled after a time and Bilbo spoke quietly with the breeder, before he nodded to the feathered cart pony, and extracted his hand from Frodo’s, briefly, to pass the coin for the pony over, smiling when Frodo relatched onto his hand the minute it was free once more. He then nodded to Frodo and whispered, softly, to Percivan Took, the pony breeder, the reason that he was buying two more ponies, instead of just one. “It is my early birthday present to him,” Bilbo whispered and Percivan Took smiled bright before he turned to Frodo.

“Well, let’s see which one suits you best Little Cousin,” Percivan stated and Frodo smiled eagerly, hesitating to glance back at Bilbo, who only nodded encouragingly, and smiled as the pair walked up to the ponies that had been pulled to the side, the grooms already leading the other geldings back.

Bilbo was not surprised when the light gray gelding that was of a far lighter build than Myrtle was picked by Frodo after two hours of the faunt running about in the paddock with them all. The lithe pony was finely muscled, obviously so, and he smiled at the way the gelding shoved his head against Myrtle and earned a push in return, the feathered cart pony soon joining in the fun.

The rest were pulled away and Myrtle was tacked up, along with the gray pony that was Frodo’s, the coin passed secretively from Bilbo’s hand to Percivan’s while the cart pony (whose name was Blackberry) was carefully tied to the cart that was probably being pulled by Blackberry’s older sibling. “Can I name my pony?” Frodo questioned.

“Course you can,” Percivan stated and Bilbo checked Myrtle’s saddle and snuck an apple slice to the mare, who chomped on it happily.

“I want to name him Balin,” Frodo stated as he carefully tightened the pony’s saddle with some help from Percivan

Bilbo choked on air and stared at Frodo, wondering what he had said about Balin to get the faunt to want to name his pony after the great Dwarf, when Frodo frowned a bit. “But I don’t like that. So…Elf-owl. My gelding is Elf-Owl and always shall be, right Elf-Owl?” Frodo stated and Bilbo smiled before he tied his cane to the spot on Myrtle’s saddle and urged her into a quick walk, hopping on his right foot next to her three times before swinging up and over, easily guiding her back to the waiting Percivan and Frodo, with the newly named Elf-Owl.

Frodo’s pony seemed quite taken with the name and that seemed to be enough to have Frodo being boosted up by Percivan before he had settled into the saddle properly, as Legolas had taught him (with help from Elrohir and Elladan, though more Elrohir than not). “Ready to go home Frodo?” Bilbo asked, smiling at the faunt of the Family.

“Yes Uncle Bilbo!” Frodo answered and they set out, Blackberry trotting easily after the cart as they headed back to the smial of Tookbank.

“Are you?” Frodo asked as he rode Elf-Owl up next to Myrtle.

Bilbo merely smiled and gave a nod, unable to vocally respond.

(He could not tell Frodo that home was far away, over the Misty Mountains and residing within Erebor, and, specifically, with the King-Under-the-Mountain, Thorin Oakenshield. He does not think that the faunt would understand.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The black pony with the feathering is a Dales pony.
> 
> Frodo's pony is a Welsh Mountain pony.


	10. Think of This as Not a "Good-Bye" but as "Till Another Day"

It was two days after the purchase of Blackberry and Elf-Owl when Legolas said that they would be leaving at the end of the week, having stayed far longer than expected. “I miss home, and now that I am reassured of my friend’s well-being, I have nothing to ease the longing,” Legolas finished and Primula sighed sadly while Frodo sniffled before he ran off, Bilbo watching him go sadly.

Elrohir made a wounded sound and moved to run after him when Drogo gently gripped his arm. “Don’t. He’s never lost anyone before. For him, friends are just around the corner, and kin, or Family, is at most a day’s walk away, and less now that he has a pony. This is new. He’s never had people he considers Family move across Middle Earth, and less move there and more _live_ there,” Drogo stated and Bilbo stilled slightly as Elladan frowned.

“You…keep emphasizing that,” Elladan stated and Bilbo let out a tiny, humorless, laugh and winced when it drew the attention of all the Elves onto him.

Drogo and Primula shared uneasy looks and Bilbo sighed softly. “Go comfort him. I’ll explain. They have the right to know what they’ve walked into,” Bilbo explained softly and Primula left, while Drogo hung back.

“Bilbo...” he began, hesitating and his eyes pained.

“Drogo, they’re part of two Families. They have the right to know, _especially_ since they don’t. So at least they can accept it in proper Hobbit fashion and Frodo won’t be more hurt when they leave without that bond between them. You don’t want to put him through that,” Bilbo responded.

“Cousin, don’t speak as if…” Drogo began, only to cut himself off.

“Frodo,” Bilbo reminded with false lightness and Drogo instantly left.

Bilbo frowned after him and focused on the four Elves, wondering when Hithon had walked into his Family. “What does this all mean?” Legolas questioned and Bilbo drank some tea as he mulled over how to explain it all to them.

“For Hobbits Family and kin are not synonymous. They can be, but it is not a guarantee. The blood is important, but blood families could betray you, as evidenced by the fact Bag-End is no longer mine, and that gets confusing and I won’t get into it. But the Family, or your Heart Family or Soul Family, depending on the family, with Tooks and Brandybucks being melodramatic in saying Soul Family, is…more. They’re the people that will stick with you for always. You’ll do things for them you wouldn’t do for kin. You’ll walk through fire, you’d risk life and limb, you’d _kill_ for them, and that one is far more important to Hobbits, since to us, killing…killing is near unforgiveable. To take the life for any reason beyond food or defense…to do so because they’re going after a piece of your Heart…it is only forgivable if it is for Family, but not for kin. Families are the ones that will help you, keep you safe, be your support. It is a mutual choice, gifts exchanged to solidify the bond, said to be “borrowed” items so you have a reason to return. Each meeting is an exchange of items, borrowing things, giving them back, but it isn’t really borrowing. It is a silent promise to return,” Bilbo explained softly.

“Not like Birthday Presents,” he added, pointing warningly at Legolas, Elladan, and Elrohir.

The twins nodded a bit at that while Legolas slowly pulled a hair pin from his hair. “Like this?” he asked, holding it out to Bilbo, his hair falling.

It was one that had been his mother’s, in her glory box, something that had been among the first things returned to him by a Took relation, an elderly matron Bilbo didn’t know who said Belladonna would have been ashamed of them all for their actions and she could only get “dear, sweet Bella’s glory box”.

It was Belladonna’s most adored piece; Dwarvish make, from _Erebor_ , long ago and nearly forgotten, and was decorated like an oak leaf. “Exactly like that,” Bilbo answered softly.

“Like the maps you let Elldan borrow and the hair tie Hithon borrowed or the sewing kit for Elrohir?” Leoglas continued, piecing it together.

So did the others.

“Yes, exactly like that. Frodo doesn’t quite get it, so he keeps trying to get you to borrow his toys, but he’ll understand in a bit. But to him, no member of his Family ever went farther than the Brandybuck Halls, till I went to Erebor. And I came back, because I…I have Family here. So, there’s that. You four…Legolas and Hithon live in Mirkwood, which is probably farther than he’ll ever go, and Elladan and Elrohir live in Rivendell, and have duties that carry them far away. He’s never had Family so far away. And unrequited Family, that far gone, would be too much pain to ask of a faunt Frodo’s age,” Bilbo answered, sipping at his tea, hoping that they wouldn’t catch what he didn’t say.

“Why would it be painful?” Hithon questioned and Bilbo winced.

Elladan and Elrohir both stared at each other, mimicking each other in a manner that reminded Bilbo of Fíli and Kíli to the point of making his heart ache. “Heart Family or Soul Family?” Elrohir questioned and Bilbo did not look at them as it clicked.

He could practically hear it.

“Bonds of Family. It hurts to have it unrequited…and distance probably adds to the ache,” Legolas stated, his voice as cold as his father’s.

Bilbo winced at that.

“Yes, it does. Quite a bit actually. A dull throb in the chest, where the heart is. But if one’s leg is bad, one doesn’t notice, especially on bad days, to the point where it doesn’t register,” Bilbo answered softly.

Legolas stared at him silently and then he stood, leaving the smial quickly.

He did not slam the door, because he would not do that, but it was a near thing. Hithon sighed softly and followed, while Elladan and Elrohir stared at Bilbo in confused horror.

Bilbo was about to argue that he was perfectly fine, when Frodo came running back in, colliding with Elladan first, for he was closer, and they were focused on calming the faunt down. Only then did Bilbo agree to help Frodo (and the Elves) find proper “borrowing” items so the Family would always have a promise to return to each other in their possession.

On the day the Elves proclaimed that they would leave on the morrow, Frodo cried himself sick, twice, and clung to the Elves, begging them not to go and it took Bilbo to calm him down.

“Frodo, dear one, Family is _Family_. They are pieces of your Heart, stretching across Middle Earth, past Rivendell, and over the Misty Mountains and deep within the great wood that resides near the foot of the Lonely Mountain. And Family always comes back together,” Bilbo promised.

Frodo sniffed and rubbed his eyes before he stared up at the Elves. “Promise?” he asked.

“Promise,” the four First Born intoned softly and Frodo beamed before he ran over to hug and kiss them, laughing brightly.

And the next morning, he eagerly rode Elf-Owl through the early morning mist, Bilbo following on Myrtle as they rode with them to the edge of the Shire, waving them off until they weren’t even specks on the horizon.

“Ready to go home now Uncle Bilbo?” Frodo asked.

Bilbo only nodded and ruffled the boy’s hair before he turned West instead of East and rode back to the smial after the eager, and impatient, faunt.


	11. Afteryule (Death)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For those keeping track at home, with this chapter, Bilbo's Timeline and Thorin's Timeline are _finally_ at the same point.
> 
> In other words, the end of this chapter matches the end of the chapter ["There is a Burning in my Skin"](http://archiveofourown.org/works/721254/chapters/1346032), timeline wise…more or less.
> 
> Essentially, I have now caught up the two timelines; Bilbo's and the Company's.
> 
> (Did that make sense to everyone?)

Bilbo and Frodo's Birthday passes with a grand party with grander presents.

Bilbo doesn't learn until later that the reason the Sackville-Bagginses never showed up was because Primula had seen them coming and chased them off with her cast-iron skillet, but despite that, nothing strange happens.

Autumn passes into winter and, despite the chill in the air, winter is gentle. It is a rare day that Bilbo finds himself bed-bound and those days are filled with Frodo cuddling up against his side, asking for stories.

Usually the one about the Trolls.

In these quiet times, Frodo fiddles with the four charms that are tied to the woven leather necklace Frodo now wears, a matching one worn by Bilbo, marks of a Family that they carry all their days.

Primula is gleeful that, otherwise, Bilbo's days are filled with the children of Tookbank, being the schoolteacher, for a lack of a better term, easily teaching them the important things, such as plants, stars, and how to read the seasons (along with their letters and numbers), but other things that are important, for Tooks at least.

He teaches them how to care for a pony and how to fight. He teaches them how to read maps and how to read people. He teaches them how to sneak up on a sleeping champion mouser and he teaches that just because one is small, or one is crippled for life, doesn't mean that one is helpless.

He also tells them that one should never laugh at live dragons and while most of the faunts laugh it off as a joke, Frodo and Samwise eye Bilbo's feet every time Bilbo says it.

Most of the Hobbit mothers give food as payment.

Others give mathoms.

Only Old Spinster Took-Bank pays Bilbo in actual coin for the teaching of her adopted heir, her distant cousin, Willow Took-Bank.

Willow was half-wild and chased Frodo all around Tookbank with her wooden sword. He chased her back, however, and the pair were good friends, Samwise more often than not joining in once Hamfast let him go.

Spinster Took-Bank had laughed at it all, and shared her private worries with Bilbo that Willow would not want to stay and be her heiress.

“Madame Took-Bank, adventuring doesn’t mean that you can never go home,” he stated and she smiled, emphasizing her wrinkles.

It was on Second Yule, the first day of the Shire Year, with most of the Shire at the Party Tree for the event, Bilbo and Spinster Took-Bank sitting on a bench Drogo had brought out in Blackberry’s cart, that Spinster Took-Bank and Bachelor Baggins became a bit more than just distant acquaintances.

“It would please me greatly if you called me Lily, Mister Baggins,” she stated as the pair watched the faunts running around, Frodo, Samwise, Willow, and Merridoc Brandybuck having decided to become as thick as thieves within seconds of all meeting under the party tree.

“Only if you call me Bilbo, Lily,” Bilbo answered.

She gave a nod and with that the bachelor and the spinster began to chat amicably while the faunts ran around, swinging wooden swords, Bilbo leaning forward lightly on his cane while Lily did the same, her own cane more out of decoration than necessity.

(Unknown to Bilbo Baggins, at the moment he was befriending Lily Took-Bank, Thorin had finally, officially, become King-Under-the-Mountain.)

* * *

“Are you sure you don’t want to come to Brandybuck Hall with us?” Primula asked Frodo while Drogo packed for a week-long stay within Blackberry’s cart, the pony quietly waiting as they packed the last of the bulky items, mostly gifts for Primula’s relations.

“I’m sure. I want to stay with Uncle Bilbo,” Frodo answered, even as he rocked on his feet, bouncing lightly on the balls of his feet when his mother heaved a sigh.

“We’re going boating. You usually don’t get a chance to miss it,” Primula continued and Frodo shook his head, black curls tickling his eyes nearly.

Frodo decided he would have to ask Uncle Bilbo to trim it when he was feeling a bit better, having already retreated to bed with his special tea instead of seeing Frodo’s parents off. “I rarely get Uncle Bilbo to myself and now I’ll have a whole week with him to myself. He said we’re going to go look over some of the Baggins land in a couple of days, since Dad can’t this week,” Frodo exclaimed, excitement coloring every word.

Primula laughed and tapped her booted foot against the ground.

Any time she went farther than their yard, she wore boots. She told Frodo that she had “tender feet”, once when he was young, but Uncle Bilbo had explained they were like a Dwarves’; hardier than those of Men and Elves, but softer than those of Hobbits.

They were good for grass and smoothed wood and packed dirt, but anything harsher would cripple her.

Frodo had his father’s feet, though Uncle Bilbo had shown some concern over the fact they did not callus as quickly, or as thickly, and had voiced the idea of maybe some soft soled boots for longer walking holidays.

Drogo had blanched at that, but Primula had said it should probably be put into consideration.

(Drogo didn’t like talk of boots, but Uncle Bilbo had rolled his eyes at it when the conversation had come up when Frodo had cut his foot on a sharp stone, Sam having carried Frodo to their smial the instant the injury had been sustained.)

“Well, if you’re sure,” Primula stated, crossing her arms slightly and Frodo nodded.

“Positive Mama,” he responded and she laughed before she knelt down and hugged him tight, pressing kisses all over his face until he was squealing and laughing and trying to pull away.

“We’ll bring you and Uncle Bilbo presents to make up for staying behind, all right?”

“You don’t have to make it up Mama. I don’t mind staying,” Frodo answered and Primula laughed before she pressed more kisses to Frodo’s face, as she always did whenever she had to leave Frodo alone for any length of time.

They parted with giggles and she headed over to the waiting cart. “Now, remember to be a help to your Uncle Bilbo when he goes to check on his lands! Drogo _hates_ it, so he’s barely a help at all,” Primula stated as she got up into the driver’s seat of the cart while Drogo made his way over to Frodo.

“I do. I prefer being a carpenter to a land-owner,” Drogo answered and quickly scooped Frodo up in a tight hug, spinning around as Frodo laughed before depositing the boy back onto the ground.

“Behave for Uncle Bilbo. And we’ll see you in a week,” Drogo promised and kissed Frodo’s curls before he stood and hopped up next to Primula.

Frodo laughed and clambered up onto the stone wall, waving at them until they were out of sight.

He checked on Myrtle and Elf-Owl, who had already been cared for that morning, and wondered if he should turn them out before deciding that it could wait till after lunch, when Uncle Bilbo would be awake.

And with that, Frodo trundled his way back into the house.

Today was going to be a sandwich day, Uncle Bilbo already having cold cuts prepared and in the cold pantry.

The first five days of their week-long vacation are filled with joy.

Frodo eagerly follows after Bilbo and learns about the land and how some farmers are tenants, who are so very thankful that Uncle Bilbo is in charge. The world is bright and there is that bite of cold that speaks of a coming snowstorm, one that Uncle Bilbo confirms with the pain that increases in his leg, but if his days start in the afternoon (or not at all, such as on the fourth day), Frodo is okay with that.

He loves to snuggle with his Uncle Bilbo while he mutters out tales of the Adventure.

(Frodo notices how Uncle Bilbo cries silently when he speaks of Thorin Oakenshield, of how sometimes his hand spasms when he talks of Fíli and Kíli. He sees the Signs of Missing Family and wonders if maybe, just maybe, Uncle Bilbo understands the agony of Unrequited Family, and his heart roars with a Brandybuck’s rage at the thought of the Dwarrows who took his Uncle on an adventure, only to leave his uncle so broken the Frodo didn’t think his uncle would ever be fixed. And that thought makes Frodo want to cry, but he doesn’t, because he knows that it will only hurt Uncle Bilbo further.)

It is on the sixth day, on the mid-morning, Frodo suddenly felt as if something snapped within his chest.

He screamed in agony, clawing at his chest, confusion filling him and tears falling from his eyes as a deep sadness filled his chest. He cried and sobbed, and he didn’t know _why_ , but Uncle Bilbo is holding him, and there are tears in Frodo’s hair, he can feel them.

He can also hear his uncle whispering, over and over, “I’m sorry, Frodo, I’m sorry.”

* * *

The funeral is held on the twentieth day of Afteryule.

There are no bodies, just markers, and a fresh layer of snow covers everything. Frodo’s eyes are empty as he stares at his parents’ markers, clutching to Bilbo’s hand, both wearing all black, omitting their shirts, which were a crisp white that challenged the snow.

The service is quiet and Bilbo is helped up by Hamfast into the back of the cart, which is decorated with black ribbons and pulled by Blackberry, Frodo following before the equally dark dressed Hobbit got into the driver’s seat and began to drive them back to Tookbank.

The smial is empty and cold and Frodo spends the next week in bed with Bilbo, clutching to him and sobbing his eyes out, drinking and eating whatever Bilbo gives him.

Frodo never notices how little Bilbo eats himself, or how much weight he loses, lost in his grief and clinging to the one who remains, terrified he’ll lose Bilbo too.

* * *

In the living room, on the mantel, two presents wrapped in brown paper sit, tags hanging from them in Primula and Drogo’s handwriting, one to Bilbo, the other to Frodo.

The presents will remain on the mantel, untouched except for dusting, for some time. And when they _do_ move, it will be the most unexpected of hands.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bilbo is 53.
> 
> Frodo is 9.
> 
> Timelines are now officially destroyed.


	12. Unexpected Changes (Grief/Grieving/Mourning Angst, so much Angst, Sort-of Suicidal Thoughts)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Spring brings new life and...new visitors.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I made a chapter summary that was actually a chapter summary, which surprised me.
> 
> The song part I put in is _The Hobbit_ book version of "The Road Goes Ever On".
> 
> Also, on Hobbit mourning...
> 
> I kind-of based it off Victorian mourning. I don't know why, but I think it is mostly because, while I love Hobbits being full of life and celebrating the life instead of mourning the death, for some reason this fit better.
> 
> (I have no idea why it wrote itself this way. Seriously. I mostly just let it do what it wants. Like Loki.)
> 
> (On a lighter note; does _anyone_ know how/who/where that started?)

Once Frodo and Bilbo began moving around the smial once more, they barely manage to do the needed tasks, Bilbo feeling guilt over having left the three ponies to fend on their own for a week, but Hamfast took care of them when the two were in the throes of their grief.

The first time Frodo finds a hairpin of his mother’s, he breaks down in tears over it and then screams himself hoarse about how he should have a marker too, that his selfishness over wanting to have Uncle Bilbo to himself saved him and that he should be lost beneath the Brandywine too.

Bilbo cannot calm him and finally just settles for holding him until Frodo passes out.

(It is not the last time this happens.)

Frodo’s eyes soon being to constantly _burn_ from the tears while his chest continuously _ached_ from the sobs, the emptiness that should be his parents never filling, and his hands feel _raw_ from where they beat on Bilbo’s chest when he was feeling particularly trapped by his depression.

The mirrors remained covered beyond the two week mark, neither truly able to pull the sheets off, and Frodo stops talking by the middle of Solmath. Bilbo tries everything he can think of to get Frodo to speak again, but fails miserably and it soon becomes a fight to get Frodo to eat.

(Getting him to drink tea is impossible and Bilbo settles on milk and water to get Frodo through the day.)

Everything seems to come to a head shortly after the mid-way point of Solmath, when Frodo finds his mother’s lucky shawl on a window seat and begins to scream obscenities that he had to learn from Primula herself at the shawl, as if it was the cause of all his woes. He grabs the shawl, possibly to attempt to rip it apart, when he breaks down into tears and wraps it around himself instead, rocking and crying even as Bilbo gathers him up and holds him close (and Frodo doesn’t notice how Bilbo’s clothes hang off him now).

And with that Frodo slips into a stupor where he moves automatically, like a puppet, senseless to the world around him.

He eats what is put in front of him, drinks whatever is in the cups placed in his hand, and sits listlessly through being bathed and dressed, tradition being shattered by the pair in Bilbo’s vain attempts that the bright colors will wake Frodo back up.

(He never sees the tears or hears the pleadings from Bilbo to wake up, to come back, that Bilbo can’t lose Frodo too.)

It is nearing the end of Solmoth when Frodo seems to blink awake to find himself staring into the exhausted, thin (too thin, but Frodo doesn’t recognize that, not yet) face of his uncle and asks for a biscuit.

It is in Solmoth’s death that Bilbo stands up at the end of breakfast (in which he barely ate a thing, though Frodo had a whole bowl of porridge) only to go paler (somehow) and collapse to the ground.

Frodo screams so loudly, and with such fear, that Hamfast and Bell, his wife, running to the smial. Belle comforts Frodo while Hamfast gets Bilbo to bed and when Bilbo comes to after Lunch, it is to the smell of broth.

The Gamgees practically move into the smial, Bell getting them proper mourning attire (though she doesn’t touch the sheets over the mirrors) and it takes a little over a week for Bilbo to be recovered enough to move around and cook again.

(Neither Bilbo nor Frodo learn of how Hamfast fights for Bilbo keeping Frodo, pointing out that Frodo would have given up and in if it hadn’t been for Bilbo and they’d have a marker, this time with a coffin, for little Frodo if that was the case, followed by Bilbo, as sure as Hamfast breathed.)

(No one else in the Shire beyond those in the immediate know how learn of it either.)

Near the end of Rethe, Frodo tells Bilbo he’s ready to remove the sheets from the mirrors and they go through the house and remove them all.

Bilbo, however, cannot remove the one on his private mirror in his bedroom, because every time he looks into the mirror, he only sees someone who doesn’t deserve to be here, that it should be Primula and Drogo here, not him, Broken Burdensome Bilbo Baggins, and so he leaves the sheet over his own mirror.

(Bilbo, however, would never leave Frodo, and hopes to one day be worthy enough to have stayed while Prim and Drogo did not.)

Frodo smiles for the first time since his parents’ funereal when Samwise tells Frodo of the Dwarven Fair up in the Party Meadow.

Bilbo tells them to take Blackberry and the unused cart.

* * *

It is on the fifteenth day of Astron that another Dwarven caravan from Erebor made its way to Ered Luin.

Smaller than the last and more set for entertainment, the leader of the caravan, a cheerful Dwarf with an odd hat, had gone to the Thain and requested that they set up a week long fair, the caravan more like a travelling market for those whose crafts were not reliant on a forge, and the Thain eagerly agreed, various Hobbits immediately going to the behatted Dwarf (Bofur, he was called) and asking if they could set up food stalls amongst the Dwarves' wagons in the large field around the Party Tree, and Bofur readily agreed.

It would take a while to set everything up and in the meantime, while the Hobbits of the Shire were quite distrusting of outsiders, these Dwarrows seemed to be an all right sort.

The day after set-up, however, Bofur stopped being so cheerful. He had disappeared around Elevensies and had reappeared shortly after Lunch, looking as if he had been forced to eat something unpleasant after being told his best friend had died. His eyes are red-rimmed and he goes straight up the steps of his travelling wagon that reminds the Hobbits of a sort-of shed on wheels and inside before anyone can ask what is wrong.

He's smiling by the next day, but it is a pained and guilty smile and no one knows what changed the cheerful Dwarf so much in the course of a day.

If anyone had asked Holeman Greenhand, which no one did, the elderly gardener could have told them of how Bofur went whistling up to Bag-End and had looked as if his heart had been ripped out when Lobelia Sackville-Baggins told the Dwarf that this wasn't Bilbo Baggins's home anymore and, when he had asked if Bilbo was alive, he only got a sharp nod. The Dwarf had apologized for disrupting her day after that and left, only to collapse out of sight, of Lobelia at least, and sobbed as if his soul had been shredded apart.

The reason Holeman told no one of his own volition, however, was because it was obvious, to him at least, that this _Bofur_  was one of those Dwarrows Mister Baggins had run off with on his Adventure.

And, considering the condition Mister Baggins had returned in, Holeman was none to keen to ease the Dwarf's suffering, even if Holeman wasn't entirely sure  _why_ the Dwarf was so distressed by the loss.

* * *

It was the third day of the Fair and Bofur was already wishing it was over.

He liked the little Hobbit children, of course, and had often just given them the little toys he had carved during the caravan’s journey as gifts, because he liked seeing them smile and laugh and run off to show the toys off to parents or other children.

He had been told, by other Dwarrows and the Hobbit parents, that he should sell them, but he had waved them off.

Being independently wealthy had its perks and none of them were enough to keep him in the Shire, to face the grievous harm he, and the rest of the Company and their _thrice-cursed_ King had given Bilbo.

Unbidden, Bilbo’s voice curls through his mind.

One conversation that had been on repeat since that ill-faced woman opened the door to _Bilbo’s_ home and was told that it _wasn’t_ anymore.

_“My father built it for my mother, you know.”_

Bofur remembered how he looked up at that, staring at Bilbo when they shared watch.

_“He built it, mostly, with his own two hands, as a wedding present, whether it was to him or to another, he had built it for my mother.”_

He had remembered laughing at that, smiling at the cuteness of it.

_“Wanted a place for her to be happy, even if it wasn’t with him. And…well, that was when my mother said yes. Because she figured if he loved her enough to let her go, she loved him enough to stay.”_

That had erased the cuteness of it, at the time. Because then Bofur had realized that Bilbo had sworn to get them a home.

To get them a place surrounded with love, because to him that was home.

Bofur scowled at the thoughts, remembering how Bilbo smiled when he thought about home. He began to carve another toy, this one far more intricate than the ones he has been giving the children who came running up to him to thank him for bringing a Fair to the Shire, as the end of the conversation echoed through his mind.

_“They died. My father before I reached my majority, my mother after I reached it, though she was dead in spirit before that time. She couldn’t live without him. I turned their room into a mathom room.”_

Bofur had nearly choked on air at the time, realizing that they had tossed around his dead mother’s dishes, and had mocked him, more than just a bit, had _tormented_ the Hobbit, and nearly cried, at the time, when he remembered other conversations asked by curious younglings about why his home was empty, why there wasn’t a “Mrs. Boggins” and whatnot, and even when their majority was.

Bofur had almost cried when the picture of Bilbo’s life came together in his mind and _now_ they had sent him into a torment not even Melkor could have thought up for his worst enemy.

Before going with them and winning back a home that wasn’t his (though it could have been), he at least had been surrounded by proof of his parents’ love and, wherever he was now, that wasn’t the case.

He worked on a one of the joints, wondering if he had any fine wire when he felt as if he was being watched. He slowly looked up and soon found himself staring at the most somber looking Hobbit child (let alone a Hobbit at _all_ ) in existence.

He had black curly hair that fell to his chin with nearly dead blue eyes, his skin _painfully_ pale. He was wearing a pristine white shirt with a dull black vest, an equally dull black arm band around his upper arm, and trousers that seemed to blend straight into the vest.

He was just standing there, staring at Bofur and Bofur carefully set aside the toy part (it looked like it could be the start of a puppet, but he had a feeling the entire thing would end up in the fire later) aside. “Hullo,” he greeted and the boy waved.

Bofur wondered what had brought the child over when the somber little thing asked, “Are you Bofur?”

“Aye, that’s my name.”

The boy gave a nod at that and said, “I’m Frodo. Do you know what you’re making?”

The odd phrasing of the question confused Bofur slightly, but he shook his head in response.

Frodo gave a shrug and then settled on the ground. They stared at each other for a time, but eventually Bofur leaned back and got a new block of wood, oak, and began to work on something new. “What are ya doin’ here?” Bofur asked as he worked.

“Master Gamgee, he’s my friend Samwise’s father, brought us in my fa…my uncle’s cart, drawn by Blackberry. Blackberry doesn’t get around as much now and the fair’s only here for a time. Uncle said I should go, but I didn’t particularly want to. He wasn’t feeling well this morning. I think he took his special tea after I left, which means a storm is coming,” Frodo answered.

Bofur wasn’t a stupid Dwarf. The avoidance of speaking of parents, the fact he had almost said the cart was his father’s and adding in the fact he admitted to Blackberry, whatever that was, didn’t get around much, told Bofur the child was an orphan.

Probably in the guardianship of his uncle.

“Uncle’s got an old injury?” Bofur asked, focused on carving, smiling as the pony began to take shape under his hands.

(If he had been looking at Frodo, he would have been quite surprised by the searching glare of pure loathing the child leveled at him for the question.)

“Yes. A bad leg,” Frodo answered, his voice odd sounding and Bofur looked up, wondering if he had misjudged, but there was no pain in the child’s gaze, so he looked back down.

“What happened?”

“He never told me what happened.”

Bofur looked up, again, at that and nodded a bit. “I have a cousin like that. He got injured and never told me how it happened. Sometimes I need to give him a special tea too,” Bofur responded.

Frodo hummed softly at that and Bofur let silence grow between them. He was quick and the wood grain forgiving. He leaned back again and got his smoothing paper before he began to do just that, smoothing down the carving, listening as the child began to sing some Hobbit song.

“ _Roads go ever ever on,_  
_Under cloud and under star,_  
_Yet feet that wandering have gone_  
_Turn at last to home afar._  
_Eyes that fire and sword have seen_  
_And horror in the halls of stone_  
_Look at last on meadows green_  
_And trees and hills they long have known._ _”_

Bofur looked up at that, easily smoothing it and smiled at the way the boy had woven some wild flowers into a crown. He looked down at the toy and smiled a bit. “You have to go soon?” Bofur asked.

“No,” Frodo answered and Bofur nodded before he asked the boy to wait.

Only then did he slip inside and began to carefully paint a finish over the wooden pony, careful in his movements before he went back to sit on the steps to watch the Hobbit child.

Another, this one with short blond curls and sharp green eyes, had joined Frodo and was wearing Frodo’s flower crown while Frodo wove another. “Samwise?” Bofur questioned and the blond child nodded carefully.

“Bofur,” he greeted and wondered what toys he could give them.

“Nice to meet ya, Mister Bofur. Frodo, Da asked me to find ya. He says it is time for Lunch,” Samwise stated.

“Not hungry,” Frodo responded softly.

“Course you are. You haven’t had anything since Breakfast. You refused Second Breakfast, and Elevensies, completely,” Samwise cajoled and Bofur quietly watched them, noticing a Hobbit, possibly the father, walking over.

Bofur notices the armband, black like Frodo’s on his arm and when Samwise shifts, there is one on his arm too, the one away from Bofur.

Samwise’s possible father has meat pies on paper in his hands and he crouches down to give one to Frodo and one to Samwise, and there is a girl, most likely Samwise’s sister, with two earthenware mugs in her hands, handing both to them as well before she skipped off.

Frodo stares at the meat pie and bites into it.

Samwise’s father ruffles Frodo’s hair, then Samwise’s, before he too wanders off.

“Tell me about Blackberry,” Bofur prompted and Frodo immediately speaks of the gentle cart pony, black, with feathering on the legs.

“I’ve got a couple like that meself,” Bofur stated, once they’ve finished their food, and he offers to introduce them to his pair that share the duty of pulling his little living wagon.

Frodo is eager and they leave their mugs with the paper on the steps, Bofur leading them to where his stallion, Umzim, and the gelding, Usakad, were resting. Frodo has more confidence than Samwise, and it is explained when Frodo speaks of Elf-Owl, his gray pony.

They are like that for a while longer and when Samwise’s father comes to collect them, it is with four other children in tow.

Bofur doesn’t hesitate to pass out toys to the children (dolls with working joints for the two girls there, and a small set of soldiers for the boys, though the eldest was pretending not to care for it) and he didn’t hesitate, after checking to make sure the varnish was set, to give the pony to Frodo.

He watched the family leave and noticed how the cart had black ribbons tied to it and, with a flick of the reins had Blackberry, the pony that could match either of Bofur’s, trotting off down the lane, quickly pulling them out of sight.

With that, Bofur headed inside and began to build a very complex toy that would, hopefully, be finished by the time the caravan would pass through the Shire again.

Hopefully he would be able to find Frodo and give it to him.

He should have the parts.

* * *

Bilbo looked over to his doorway when he heard it open and smiled at Frodo who clambered up next to him on the bed. “Did you enjoy the Fair?” Bilbo asked softly, running a comforting hand over Frodo’s hair.

“Yep,” Frodo answered as he buried himself into Bilbo’s side.

And with that, he began to rattle off his day, expertly avoiding any direct mention of Bofur by name or appearance, beyond stating there was a Dwarf who gave toys away to the children.

Bilbo chuckled lowly at that, though it was a slightly pained sound and Frodo nuzzled against Bilbo’s shoulder as Bilbo murmured, “Sounds like Bofur.”

Frodo never confirmed his uncle’s thoughts.

He doesn’t trust the Dwarf with his Uncle’s far too fragile heart, not even in friendship, and until he does, he’ll do everything in his power to keep Thorin Oakenshield and his Company far from his Uncle Bilbo.

 _That_ is a Brandybuck Promise.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For help in understanding how long this chapter is, timeline wise, though it pulls a bit from the end of the last chapter.
> 
> There are 30 days in a Shire Month, but a week is still seven days. *sighs*
> 
> Why not six? That way there would be five weeks to a month and everything would just be perfect. *sighs again*
> 
> Anyway....
> 
> Afteryule is the first month the Shire Year and the equivalent of the 23rd of December to the 21st of January.
> 
> The twentieth day of Afteryule is the funeral of Frodo's parents.
> 
> One week after that is the 27th day of Afteryule.
> 
> A week after that is the 4th day of Solmath (which is the equivalent of the 22nd of January to the 20th of February) and, traditionally, when Hobbits remove the sheets from mirrors.
> 
> Frodo has a complete screaming, shouting fit of depression and collapses to be dead to the world around the fifteenth, and becomes aware of his surroundings again on, or shortly after, the 25th.
> 
> Bilbo's collapse happens as Solmath dies, meaning the 30th.
> 
> His recovery a little over a week later is, thus on, or around, the 9th of Rethe (the equivalent of the 21st of February to the 22nd of March).
> 
> Their removal of the sheets on all the mirrors (but Bilbo's private mirror) is on the twentieth of Rethe.
> 
> The fifteenth of Astron (the equivalent of the 23rd of March to 21st of April) is when Bofur returns to the Shire, the 16th when he learns of Bilbo losing Bag-End, and the Fair actually started on the 18th, thus making the fifth day of the Fair, when Bofur meets Frodo it is the 23rd of Astron, and thus the Fair closes up on the 25th of Astron and Bofur leaves the Shire on the 27th of Astron.
> 
> (...I think that all made sense.)
> 
> Also, Umzim is "Great Jewel" and Usakad is "Great Shadow (actual)"


	13. Return Meetings

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello my darling readers!
> 
> Writing to you from Wondercon! (Not even being in my great geek mini-heaven stops me from writing fanfiction. I adore you all.)

The Dwarven Fair returned in time for Midyear's Day, the Thain greeting Bofur cheerfully.

They worked out a careful schedule, explaining how they were just in time for festivities and that the Dwarrows were more than welcome to join in them, as they were just in time, specifically, for Overlithe. Bofur perked up at this, learning that First Lithe was a feast day with Family, Midyear's Day was a rest day (for the most part), and Overlithe was a sort of festival, with Families offering up mathoms as prizes to games.

Bofur jovially offered up many puzzle boxes that held surprise toys within, all gender neutral, that he usually sold rather cheaply, when he sold them at all, and they took up the same meadow as before for 'living', the invitation never wavering.

The lightness of it eased Bofur's heart, but he still felt a sick feeling in his gut at being in the Shire once more.

It only reminded him of the damage he, and the others, had done to their fourteenth member of their Company.

And that thought only made the sick feeling grow.

* * *

Bofur smiled as he carefully finished checking up on the last of the toy, smiling at the moving Smaug the Terrible (not that Frodo would know who Smaug the Terrible _was_ ) he had carefully carved and put together, the wood not catching and the gears smooth.

The neck and head were Bofur’s favorite parts, as most of his troubles had come from finding a way to make it so that the head and neck could move and lock simply enough for a child to enjoy. The head could swing side to side, and had a full range of motion, and even the jaw opened with a small hinge at the back of the head.

The spots that held the shifting gears had been carefully carved so that they could hide the secrets, while also being enough to look as if it was one solid piece. He had spent many hours on it, asking another Dwarf of the caravan who was apprenticed to one of the woodworkers to drive his travelling wagon so he could work on it.

He knew that they would return to the Shire quickly and he did not know when he would next be able to return if he missed this time to give the toy to Frodo.

The rest of the body was not nearly so difficult, until the tail. The body was solid, though with connecting pieces in it, the store house of the complicated works. The wings could flap and spread further, as well as lay flat, sturdy cloth and leather over carefully crafted wing skeletons, that taking patience, but not much time.

The tail was as complicated as the neck, but easier to make as it just need to move side to side, while the legs were simple joints and completely moveable, allowing the dragon to lie down on his belly.

And then the whole creation was painted to look like Smaug, or how Bilbo had described the Greatest and Chiefest Calamity of the Age, with the chest being encrusted with wooden gems, the bare spot a mark of how to open the chest so cogs there could be fixed.

It was, all in all, Bofur’s greatest work.

It was finished and perfect and…rather large.

Not too heavy, hopefully, but Frodo would have to cradle it in both arms, with the wings perfectly folded against the body, the head over the shoulder and the tail curling around to the boy’s back.

It was the perfect present, in Bofur’s mind, to give to a grieving boy.

“Bifur would call me mad,” he breathed softly, fingers tracing down the neck of the toy Smaug and he smiled.

Today was the Hobbit holiday, Overlithe. The festival was already well underway and Bofur smiled.

Hopefully he’d find Frodo.

After all, this was the perfect place to find the young one again.

(Bofur hoped that he was no longer in mourning, but he felt that it might not be the case. Still, he could have a hope, even if it was just a fool’s hope. But who was he, but a foolish toy making miner?)

* * *

Frodo was smiling excitedly as he held tightly to his Uncle Bilbo’s hand, his vest with a nice vine-like print on it of dark, raised black against the paler black of his vest, the trousers matching the pale black, and the armband the same one he had worn when he first met Bofur.

Uncle Bilbo moved slowly, and he probably shouldn’t have come at all, but this was the first time since his parents’ deaths that Uncle Bilbo had left at _all_ and so Frodo was just glad to have his uncle here and that was that.

“Why don’t you run ahead Frodo?” Uncle Bilbo encouraged softly and Frodo frowned briefly before he tightened his grip on Uncle Bilbo’s hand.

“Nu-uh,” Frodo protested softly.

“Frodo, you can. I’ll be right behind you,” Uncle Bilbo promised and Frodo hesitated before he let his hand slip from Uncle Bilbo’s gentle grip and rushed forward.

There were booths that had games and he bounced excitedly, focused on the ring tossing one when he heard a voice he did _not_ want to hear call, “Frodo, lad, I was hoping to see you to…”

It was Bofur, of course it was, and his voice trailed off as Uncle Bilbo limped around one of the other Hobbits and stilled upon seeing Bofur. Frodo stared at how the behatted Dwarf stared at his uncle, guilt and _agony_ written in his eyes and Frodo shifted slightly as Uncle Bilbo stared back at Bofur, fear, pain, and wishing in his gaze, though mostly fear.

Frodo wondered if he should kick Bofur in the knee and run, though Uncle Bilbo couldn’t run, and then Bofur was moving forward and pulling Uncle Bilbo into a tight hug that lifted Uncle Bilbo off the ground while burying his face into Uncle Bilbo’s curls and breathed out one word.

“Bilbo.”

For a moment, Uncle Bilbo was still and then he let out a low sob and wrapped his arms tightly around Bofur’s shoulders. “Bofur,” Bilbo returned and that was enough for Frodo to decide that Bofur could stay around his Uncle Bilbo.

For now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (Everyone probably knows this, but I am going to go all academic on you all, so...I apologize in advanced.)
> 
> The Shire Calendar is a pain in the neck.
> 
> A Shire Year starts on Second Yule, specifically.
> 
> Then it is Afteryule, which, like all Shire Months has only 30 days.
> 
> Because of this, they needed to add separate days to fill out the year, including a Leap Year day.
> 
> See where I am going with this?
> 
> I spent nearly two hours double checking my math for Shire Reckoning to see if this was a Shire Leap Year or not.
> 
> (It is, so...yay, holiday. *headdesks*)
> 
> Midyear's day is, as suggested, in the middle of the year.
> 
> Since this is a Shire Leap Year, it is followed by Overlithe, which is a special holiday so, yay, I got to invent things.
> 
> (Not...entirely, actually. While I love world building, thinking up feast things and such wasn't fun. I was tempted to redo it so they came after, but I liked Bofur returning on Midyear's Day, so it stayed.)
> 
> Then it is Second Lithe.
> 
> First Lithe and Second Lithe are both feast days. So, there's that.
> 
> And then it is Afterlithe, the seventh month of the Shire Calendar and is, roughly, the equivilent of the 24th of June to the 23rd of July.
> 
> And that's all she wrote, for now.
> 
> Next chapter will have Bofur, tea, and adorableness.


	14. Tea With Bilbo and Frodo

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is a bit rambling, again, and I apologize for that.
> 
> But, again, it would not write any other way.
> 
> And trust me, I tried.

Bofur had been painstakingly careful when he returned Bilbo to his feet, Frodo smiling up at them, but that hadn't stopped Bilbo's bad leg ( _how did it happen?_ he wants to ask, but he can't, because it hurts too much to even  _see_ ) from collapsing out from under him.

Bofur had caught Bilbo on instinct and didn't hesitate as he scooped Bilbo up into his arms, Frodo snatching up the oak cane Bilbo used to get around with. Bilbo is panting in agony and gripping tightly to Bofur's shoulders.

He doesn't even have to ask where their cart is, for Frodo has already started leading him to it.

He is not surprised that it is the cart he saw those months ago and though the ribbons are gone now, the pony is the same.

One of the Hobbits in charge of the carts and ponies immediately harnesses Blackberry up and gets him hooked to the cart so Bofur can settle Bilbo in the back. One of the Dwarrows Bofur's travelling with has already rushed to his wagon, on his orders, even as he helps Frodo up into the cart, and Bofur waits patiently, despite Frodo's impatient glare, for the Dwarf to return, bearing the great gift.

Bofur doesn't hesitate to take it from her arms (and my, she was a pretty one; long luxurious beard braided up into her hair with bells that jingled all along the length of it and Bofur almost wished she would look from her craft, but he wasn't any likelier to look from his own, so no use wishing for his sake) and gives her his thanks before he turns back to the little Hobbit child.

And with that, he carefully gave it to Frodo, smiling at the way it nearly made the Hobbit child look smaller than he was. "Hold it tight," Bofur stated as he hopped up into the cart, Frodo reassuring the Hobbit watching the ponies and carts that "Mr. Bofur was a good friend of Uncle Bilbo's and it'd be okay," and then Frodo was telling Bofur which way to go.

Though, even as Bofur had to think constantly, listening to the directions the boy gave, he couldn’t help but wonder Bilbo had told his young nephew (though Bofur was sure Bilbo had no siblings) about the Dwarrows he had travelled with a few short years ago.

* * *

Hamfast was the name of Samwise’s father and he takes Blackberry with the promise to care for the pony, ignoring Bilbo’s pain filled protests from the back of the cart as Bofur thanks Hamfast, before he gets Bilbo inside.

Bilbo protests, weakly, the entire time and puts up a larger fight, though even the smallest jostle of his left leg has him panting in agony , when he is settled into bed, Bofur’s far more violent experience with Bifur on his early, and very, very, bad days, making him practically overqualified in the care of an annoyed Hobbit who had no desire to harm him. He settled Bilbo easily under the covers and made Bilbo promise to remain before he walked back out to find that Frodo had poked the fire into existence within the stove, the poker odd in the small Hobbit’s hands and Bofur carefully plucked it from Frodo’s hands before he shut the doors.

“Ya should’ve waited fer me,” Bofur scolded lightly as he begins to fill the kettle with water, noticing that the Smaug toy had been left to rest on the table, but Frodo ignores him, slightly and begins to pull out a blue bottle from the lower cupboard with a sturdy tea cup on a not as sturdy saucer, both green print across brown.

“You had Uncle Bilbo. I had this,” Frodo answered, and Bofur resisted the urge to frown as he settled the kettle on the stove.

Instead, he smiled at Frodo and questioned, “Well, that’s true enough. Why don’t you go make sure that Bilbo keeps his promise to me, eh?”

Frodo immediately grabbed his Smaug toy and began to rush off when he paused, turning back to Bofur. “Thank you, for the toy. I promise…I promise to take good care of it. And the syrup needs only to coat the bottom of that tea cup in one fine layer. Two on very bad days,” Frodo stated and then he was gone.

Bofur smiled after him before he focused on preparing the tea, finding what was needed within moments, the tea strainer for the loose leaf tea perfect and pulled the tin that had a label of _Dear Bilbo’s Bad Day Tea_ written on it in unfamiliar, slanted and looping writing out before he followed Frodo’s instructions on the syrup.

With that, he settled the strainer over the tea cup, settle the tea leaves in the straining cloth bowl, and put the tin back.

His timing was still perfect, as the kettle was whistling and Bofur mentally chided the non-Dwarvish work of just about everything in the home, though most especially the kettle and the slightly ineffective tea strainer, wishing it was one of those pure metal things that Dori owned in abundance, now that they were settled in Erebor and Dori could finally have that tea shop he always wanted.

But he cared for it all anyway, keeping his thoughts to himself and smiling because he could hear Frodo chattering away.

With the tea prepared and in hand, Bofur having stirred it to help mix the syrup in, he began to head for the bedroom, smiling at the sight of Frodo cuddled against Bilbo’s right side, Smaug on the window seat, before he carefully handed Bilbo the tea cup.

Bilbo tried protesting again, but Bofur ignored it, settling on a stool and pulling out some of the smaller wood blocks he always kept on his person, ignoring Bilbo till Bilbo started drinking the tea.

Only then did he join in the conversation, talking about the Shire, the Overlithe Festival, Bilbo explaining the Second Lithe Feast traditions in a slowly slurring voice until Bofur reached over and pulled the empty teacup on its saucer from Bilbo’s hand and pat Frodo’s head before he stood up, fully prepared to leave this Hobbithole and head back to the fair with Frodo said, “You can stay, if you want.”

Bofur paused at that and looked at Frodo, who was watching him.

“He likes you here, and will be sad if you don’t. Stay?”

Bofur hesitated, because he didn’t have the right, not after being part of the reason Bilbo lost his home, but he missed his friend. He missed the way Bilbo had patiently taught him how to read, and write, in Westron, not for any reward, but because he had learned that Bofur had often been tricked and abused for this lack of knowledge, and Bilbo would not stand for it to happen again.

(The fact he had taught Bombur and Bifur as well, and in such a manner as to preserve their thrice-cursed pride was something that had only settled Bofur’s friendship with Bilbo in those early days, making it like mithril; precious and rare and unbreakable, even when one of those friends had never reached out for him, searched for him when the letters never returned answered, or at all.)

That was the part of him, however, that had him saying, “All right.”

Frodo beamed at that and then settled back against Bilbo, letting out a happy sigh and joining the elder Hobbit in a nap.

Later that evening, with Bilbo still feeling the effects of the syrup, but not so much that he was senseless, they had dinner that was prepared by Bofur, who was more than happy to do so, not bringing up the Quest, Erebor, or the Company unless Bilbo asked.

(Even later still, when Bofur cannot sleep, he wanders the home, sees what has changed between this place and Bag-End, and pauses at the mantel, staring at the presents. The writing from the tin is the predominant one on the tag, with the bold writing, slightly blotting, beneath it. The one on the left reads, _To Frodo, with love, Dad and Mom_. The one on the right reads, _To Dear Bilbo, with love, Drogo and Prim._ Bofur wonders what is in the packages, but does not touch, letting his eyes do the wandering until the sun begins to rise.)


	15. Stories and Truths

Bofur looks up from where he is sitting at the kitchen table when he hears an uneven gait and the soft thump of a cane.

His entire body tenses and then Bilbo is around the corner, gripping the doorframe in surprise when he sees Bofur there. "Oh," he exclaimed softly and leaned heavily on his cane, his grip tight enough to make his knuckles bone white.

Bofur stood, moving on instinct to help, his hands moving out, guilt reaching up to strangle his heart (because they should have gone looking when the letters were never answered, because Bilbo, even if he  _hated_ them, would have answered out of sheer politeness) when Bilbo leans away slightly, head bowed away. "Please...don't. I've had enough dreams of Dwarrows in my kitchen and hugging me and welcoming me back to bear waking up again," he whispered and Bofur looked away as well.

The black didn't suit Bilbo, it made him look wane and pale.

Or maybe he was just like that even without the black.

"S'not a dream, Bilbo. I promise. Or if it is, it is mine," Bofur answered and Bilbo let out a quiet, strangled, laugh which caused Bofur's head to snap up to look back at Bilbo.

He's staring at Bofur with such pained longing, and Bofur doesn't hesitate this time.

He strides across the room and he hugs Bilbo tight to him once more, burying his face into Bilbo's curls, taking all of Bilbo's weight into his arms. The cane clatters to the floor as Bilbo lets out a low sob and begins to cry in earnest against Bofur's shoulder, clinging to Bofur as if afraid the behatted Dwarf is going to disappear. Bofur clings back just as desperately, so very glad to feel his friend safe in his arms.

He refuses to think on how they broke their Burglar and a little Hobbitling is trying his best to put their Burglar back together again when he never should have had to in the first place.

Bofur eventually gathered himself up to settle Bilbo on the chair he had vacated and then handed Bilbo his cane. He winced a bit at the blotchiness of Bilbo's face, far more pronounced then it had ever been on the Quest. He was about to ask where Bilbo's handkerchiefs are when Bilbo pulls out the pocket Bofur had cut out for him and uses it to carefully wipe his face. "You kept it?" Bofur asked and Bilbo gave him a look.

Bofur smiled at that look.

He knew it well.

Bofur called it 'This is What All Hobbits Do' look.

Kíli called it 'Mister Boggins is Doing Something Hobbity' look.

He said he missed them and moped around the mountain when he wasn't shooting arrows into targets or trying to stick honey into Prince Legolas's hair with Gimli.

Not that Prince Legolas didn't try to return the favor.

And he usually succeeded.

In fact, if Bofur didn't know better, he would think that Legolas was taking vengeance for something, or someone.

Thranduil was certainly not being helpful in getting his son to  _stop_ and, truly, Bofur enjoyed watching the antics.

Not that he got to see much of them before he was sent off to lead the caravan, at his own request.

"Of course I did," Bilbo finally answered and tucked it back into his pocket before he frowned thoughtfully.

"Would you accept a borrow from me in return?" Bilbo asked and Bofur startled slightly.

"A what?" Bofur asked.

"A borrow. You know, so you have to come back. If we keep borrowing things from each other, or even if I just keep borrowing your pocket for a handkerchief and you borrow new things, or just the one thing," Bilbo answered and Bofur smiled.

"A Hobbit tradition to keep in contact with old friends?" Bofur questioned.

"You could say that," Bilbo answered and was already up and moving before Bofur could ask.

The book of fairy tales was written in Westron and carefully illustrated. It was a beautiful, precious, thing and Bofur already felt his mind brimming with toy ideas.

The only thing that drags him out of it is Frodo stumbling in, yawning and asking about First Breakfast.

"I can go," Bofur stated and Bilbo shook his head.

And if Bofur had learned anything from the Quest was, if Bilbo didn't want you to move, you didn't move.

(Frodo eyes the book and Bofur with an oddly protective eye for the entire meal. It is only the promise of a return to the caravan and the stalls that has Frodo looking away.)

* * *

The Gamgee family, along with Myrtle hooked up to second cart, joins them this time.

Bilbo was helped up into the back of Blackberry’s cart and settled before Frodo was up and in, followed by his friend Sam and a couple of the older Gamgee children.

Hamfast then passed up some tack that seemed to fit the grey pony that was carefully tied to the back of Blackberry’s cart, while Myrtle’s cart received a couple of benches while, across the way, a Hobbit lady whose white hair looked close to flying away, was helped up into a light trap by one who could be her daughter.

“What’s happening?” Bofur questioned softly from his spot next to the cart.

“There’s a pony race today! And I’m riding Elf-owl!” Frodo explained gleefully.

Bofur smiled at that even as Bilbo explained the rules and the fact that the race was more like a scavenger hunt of sorts, with clues. Every faunt (apparently the proper name for a Hobbit child, and Bofur admitted to himself, privately, that it fit the small dears) was paired with a tween (the point between teenage hood and adulthood), before he began to help.

“Bell donated scones for the Elevensies rest, and I donated some nice rabbit stew, in a manner of speaking, for their lunch,” Bilbo explained and Frodo giggled and half-buried himself into Bilbo’s side.

“Uncle Bilbo’s rabbit stew is better when he makes it, but he couldn’t this year,” Frodo explained.

He doesn’t explain _why_ , but Bofur can guess.

(He’s beginning to think that Frodo is punishing him for the harm his uncle came to while in the Company’s care. And he doesn’t blame the faunt.)

Bofur is then up in the driver’s seat of Blackberry’s cart while Hamfast already had Myrtle turning to the road, even as Bilbo continues his explanation of what Frodo is participating in.

And then Bilbo was talking about the three ponies he owns now, despite the fact they made him sneeze in the summer.

Bofur had been quite surprised to realize it was the same Myrtle from the Quest, Bilbo explaining he found the hardy mare in Rivendell, along with the rest of the Company’s ponies, if he wished to go by and pick them up.

Bilbo was sure Lord Elrond would return the ponies to their proper owners and Bofur promised to look into it.

It was a fine morning, however and Bilbo was happily retelling the Troll story, Bofur chiming in on occasion, the faunts that were not Frodo gleeful over the fact Bofur was one of _Mister Bilbo’s dwarrows_.

Bofur chuckles at that statement, beaming brightly as he nods in agreement.

 _Mister Bilbo’s dwarrows_.

He likes it.

* * *

While Frodo is off on his race/scavenger hunt with a distant Took cousin, Bofur heads over to where the Dwarrows are camped.

He talks with all of his dwarrows, makes sure they are situated and not in want for anything.

Makes sure they are well, physically and emotionally, checks on the spare mounts before he goes to check on his own ponies. He smiles at the care they received in his abrupt absence and thanks the boy who drove the wagon while he worked on the Smaug toy.

They have to reassure him, often, that they would be fine if he spent time with his ‘good as kin’ friend.

He gives his thanks to those of his caravan and, when the race was over with Frodo in fifth place, he asked Bilbo, privately, if it was all right for him to stay over again.

And that was how he found himself sitting with Bilbo and Frodo to a supper of rabbit stew.

Bofur had to agree that it tasted much better than what had been served at the luncheon and Frodo nearly fell asleep in his bowl before Bilbo sent Frodo before him to the washroom, following closely after, telling Bofur to relax.

Of course, Bofur’s hands were itching to be helpful, so he took advantage of Bilbo’s absence to wash the dishes Bilbo had left to soak.

As he did that, he found himself humming a song he hadn’t sung since Bag-End, though thoughts of Bag-End had his heart clenching with guilt and sorrow.

The price Bilbo had paid to return their home to them was too high, in Bofur’s opinion, and would probably be considered far too high by the rest of the Company’s as well.

 _If_ he could tell the Company at _all_ , that is.

Even with these heavy memories, and thoughts, behind it, the song was still fun.

He feels a bit sick to his stomach, however, every time he thinks a bit too much about the circumstances surrounding the singing of the song within Bag-End.

Mostly because Bofur knows that if anyone had tossed his deceased mother’s things around like he and the Company had, he would have probably gone after them with his mattock, or his bare hands.

(And it makes him feel ill to know they had disregarded Bilbo like that.)

“You didn’t have to do that,” Bilbo stated upon entering the room and Bofur gave a small shrug.

“Least I could do,” he answered, even as he finished drying off the last bowl and returning it to where he had seen Frodo pull it out from.

“You really didn’t,” Bilbo continued softly and Bofur shrugged again before he turned fully to Bilbo, frowning slightly at the fact Bilbo’s looking peaked.

“You should really sit,” Bofur murmured softly in concern and frowned as Bilbo just nodded in weakly in agreement.

“Shouldn’t have gone to that race,” Bilbo mumbled as he made his way, stiffly, to the den.

Bofur doesn’t hesitate to bring up a small, yet warm, fire. He does hesitate, however, upon seeing the way Bilbo practically sinks against the chair, eyes closed in pain.

He’s not sure what to do, what lines he can’t cross, before he decides that Bilbo will tell him off if he goes too far (he had no problems telling of Thorin, though that didn’t end so well, to put it lightly).

He finds a plush stool and helps Bilbo prop both of his feet up onto it before he tucks a blanket over Bilbo’s lap and settles across from him.

Bilbo smiled at that and let out a long, low, sigh.

The oaken cane now rests against the armrest. And unbidden, Bofur asks, “How did it happen?”

He wants to bite his own tongue off once the question is past his lips, but it is too late.

Bilbo starts slightly and begins to tug on his blanket. “It was during the Battle of Five Armies…”

And then he starts sobbing.

Bofur’s heart clenches slightly as the words spill out between the sobs.

“I just wanted to keep him safe, that’s all I wanted, was to keep you safe, but mostly _him_ and I know, I _know_ it was his fight, but I’m not sorry for killing the scum, I’m not sorry at all, he was going to kill _Thorin_ and Fíli and Kíli, and I just wanted to keep them _safe_ , just to keep you _all_ safe, was that too much to ask?”

But it is in that moment that it hits Bofur like a cave-in.

“Oh, _Mahal_ ,” Bofur breathed out, his voice pained and Bilbo looked up.

There is such agony there, agony that Bofur knows he will never understand, but he can empathize with Bilbo, a bit, over it.

“You _loved_ him,” Bofur breathed and Bilbo lets out a choked laugh.

“Still do. It’s _he_ who does not love _me_ anymore,” Bilbo answered.

Bofur stands at that and settles next to Bilbo, pulling him into a hug, coaxing Bilbo back into sobbing against his chest.

Especially as Thorin’s voice echoes through Bofur’s mind, bellowing only one word.

 _Betrayer_.


	16. Eventually Even the Greatest of Things Must End

Bofur found he enjoyed spending time with Bilbo and, most especially, Frodo.

He loved children, it was the reason that he had taken up toy making as a hobby, at least. He had loved crafting presents for little nieces and nephews and glorified in telling Bilbo about them, slipping in family tales with how the rest of the Company was doing.

He avoided mentioning Thorin, but reassured Bilbo that both Fíli and Kíli had survived the battle, though Fíli had lost his left eye (though gained some rather lovely scars down the left side of his face) and Kíli had lost his lower right leg, but seemed to enjoy clinking around the mountain.

He made sure to slip in this information while speaking about the, _two_ nieces he had now, as well as his three nephews, and how all five adored the two princes.

He talked about how happy and healthy Bombur’s wife, the lovely Nanri, was and how he deeply suspected she would be with child once more when he returned, despite having a child towards the beginning of this year, his second niece.

Frodo listened to all of this with wide eyes and bouncing slightly in his seat.

Bilbo listened with a warm smile and usually spent the time listening to the stories rubbing at his chest almost absently.

But, all things must come to an end, even things that Bofur wished never would.

* * *

“I have to leave tomorrow,” Bofur stated and Frodo’s eyes widened up at Bofur before he ran off into the house, Bilbo sighing after Frodo’s retreating back.

He moved to stand, already leaning heavily on the cane, when Bofur carefully rested a hand on Bilbo’s arm. “I’ll go after him,” Bofur offered and Bilbo seemed to hesitate before he settled back down on the chair.

“It might be for the best,” Bilbo admitted softly and Bofur gave a smile before he stood up, following Frodo down the hallway.

He notes that faunt is not in his bedroom or the guest bedroom that Bofur has practically taken over, borrowing Myrtle to get to and from the fair that has been set up.

He needed to watch over his people, even if he was not keeping to them.

He continues through the hallway until he reaches the back of the smial, ducking under one of the archways that is lower than the rest, and finds the backdoor slightly ajar.

Unsurprising as it has a tendency to stick and Bofur steps out into the back garden, ignoring how the grass soaks the socks he is wearing.

He was never brave enough to go barefoot like the Hobbits and Bofur finds his curiosity peaked by the garden he has sometimes seen Bilbo working in. Usually their former Burglar worked it with Frodo at his side, though often his leg made it next to impossible for him to enjoy the hobby.

It does not take long to find Frodo, sitting around the corner and Bofur immediately settles next to the boy.

The faunt who has _just_ started introducing colors back into his wardrobe and Bofur worries that Frodo will fall back into grief at this change.

It hurts a bit when Frodo doesn’t even glance at him, but Bofur just pulls out his pipe and some leaf from the Blue Mountains, and lights up. Frodo scrunches his nose slightly as the smell first curls around Frodo’s nose before he leans back slightly into the smial.

Silence fills the air around them and Bofur wonders what he can say to break it. Frodo seems determined to ignore him and that hurts a bit. He’s grown so used to Frodo’s warm, if suspicious and protective of Bilbo, presence that he’s not entirely sure how to handle a Frodo that seems intent on shutting him out.

“You know, just because I’m leavin’ tomorrow doesn’t mean I won’t ever be coming back,” Bofur stated idly and that had Frodo glancing up at him.

Bofur looked down at him and attempted to blow a smoke ring, frowning when it failed spectacularly. The failure earned him giggles from Frodo, however, so perhaps it was more of a boon in disguise. “Yer uncle makes it look so easy,” Bofur grumbled and muttered something unsavory in Khuzdul so the lad wouldn’t repeat him, hopefully, as he tried again.

More giggles left Frodo at his failure and Bofur smiled down at the faunt, who was staring up at him brightly. “Now, yer uncle borrowed somethin’ from me and I from him, so it would be bad manners to not return it, now wouldn’t it?” he stated and Frodo immediately began to perk up.

And then Bofur found himself with an lapful of faunt, who was burying his head into Bofur’s neck. Frodo was shaking slightly and Bofur carefully hugged him close.

“You’ll be back?” Frodo asked.

“As quick as I can,” Bofur answered softly as held tightly to Frodo.

“As fast as a Rhosgobel Rabbits?”

“Faster,” Bofur promised quietly.

Frodo immediately clung tighter to him and they stayed outside until Bofur’s leaf burned itself out.

* * *

Bofur returned from tucking Frodo in, the lad having passed out while in the backyard, only to find the kitchen empty.

Frowning slightly, he made a quick stop by his room in the smial to change socks before he focused on finding Bilbo.

He wasn’t too surprised when he realized that the study was occupied and he paused at the entryway of the study upon seeing Bilbo was curled over something on his desk.

Beside him was the oaken cane and, from previous closer looks after learning of how Bilbo’s heart resided with Thorin, Bofur now knows that someone (most likely Bilbo) had carefully carved various shields into the grain, hiding them from those who didn’t take the time to look.

It always broke Bofur’s heart a bit to truly _see_ the way that Bilbo did his best to carry Thorin with him everywhere he went, up to an including ownership of Thrór’s old map, which Bofur pretended not to know about.

From the way Bilbo is shifting slightly, Bofur is willing to bet that the map is what he’s curled over, and Bofur carefully reaches up to knock on the archway.

Bilbo jumps slightly and twists, a notebook opening as he does so, confirming Bofur’s suspicions.

Bilbo knows he’s not supposed to have the map and Bofur wonders how Bilbo got it, but he doesn’t ask.

He truly doesn’t have the right, especially as asking would mean admitting to snooping around the study.

“Bofur, how’s Frodo?” Bilbo questioned.

“Better. Asleep,” Bofur answered, eyes following the way Bilbo is absently rubbing his chest again.

“You?” Bofur asked, forcing his eyes up to meet Bilbo’s.

“Oh, as much as expected,” Bilbo responded and glanced down before he carefully opened a drawer to the desk and pulled out a stack of letters.

They were tied with a ribbon and Bilbo looked up at Bofur. “Could…could you do me a favor?” he questioned.

“Dependin’ on the favor,” Bofur joked, even as he meandered his way over to Bilbo, socked feet sliding slightly on the polished wood floor.

Stupid no boots in the smial rule.

Bilbo smiled up at him (and from here Bofur can see a corner of the map peeking out, but he ignores it) and holds up the packet of letters. The one on top is addressed to Thorin Oakenshield and Bofur raises an eyebrow at Bilbo. “I tried, so many times, to write to the Company. I ended up throwing the letters, all of them, into the fire, too cowardly to send them and reassure everyone I made it to the Shire. I was wondering…would you deliever them for me?” Bilbo requested.

Bofur carefully took the pack of letters and nodded.

Bilbo thanked him quietly and then turned back to the empty book. Bofur, ever curious, leaned over. “What’s that then?” Bofur questioned and Bilbo fiddled with his pocket a bit before he picked up the quill and dabbed it in ink.

“Not ready,” Bilbo answered and Bofur laughed, barely managing to muffle it in time to keep from waking Frodo, and nodded.

“Aye, aye, as you say Bilbo. I’m off to bed then. Take care,” Bofur answered and left the study to the soft scratching of a quill on paper.

* * *

They take Blackberry hooked up to his cart down to the field at dawn the next morning. The ponies are finishing up their feed when Blackberry is lead out and warmed up by Bilbo, who moves stiffly and shakes off all of Bofur’s protests about how he will be fine walking.

They get there in time for Bofur to begin focusing on his own ponies, getting them prepared for the long journey home.

The travelling wagon is secured and packed up, with Bofur already throwing his mind forward to the trail ahead, places to stop along the way, wondering how well the group will take stopping at Rivendell (not well at all), and he focuses on getting ready.

He glances over to where Bilbo and Frodo have remained, Frodo looking about ready to pass out, only to see that Bilbo’s eyes are fixated on the East.

It hits him then that, for all this place looks picturesque, that it is, for all intents and purposes, Bilbo’s prison.

Bilbo can never go home, not till banishment is lifted, not till Thorin comes to get him, because Bilbo could never take such a journey _now_. His body would not let him and Frodo would not let him, and he would not let himself.

Their selfless little burglar, who would destroy his own heart and soul for others, and it hurts Bofur to leave him.

But he doesn’t think Frodo would approve of traveling with them right now.

“Take care Bilbo!” Bofur calls, the letters safe within his travel wagon, inside his private chest.

“You too Bofur! Try to make it back before I’ve got gray in my hair!” Bilbo responded, which had Frodo up as well.

“Before my coming of age, at least!”

Bofur laughed, mentally calculating when next he could escape to visit the Shire.

He did, after all, have a book to return.


	17. Homeward Bound (Erebor)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *said in a sweet, gentle, nice tone and in no manner meant to be insulting*
> 
> Here you little beggars. The Erebor chapter.

Bofur decided he was a coward.

He could face Goblins and Orcs and Wargs, and even walk into Rivendell to collect the ponies Lord Elrond had kept safe to them, but he could not face the Company while holding Bilbo’s letters.

Instead, he waited for them to be busy and then put the letters where they would not get lost, and get to the intended recipient.

He dropped off Balin and Thorin’s letters at the same time, with Balin.

Balin would make sure Thorin would get the letter.

Fíli and Kíli’s were next, and slipping them to rest on top of the basket they brought out with them to the training grounds was simple.

Ori’s went on his desk in the library, Dori’s was delivered with the next tea shipment, and one of Nori’s little magpies (one of his little thieves of the lower district) was more than happy to deliver a letter to Nori for a fine pigeon’s blood ruby.

Óin’s letter went with the next medical shipment and Glóin’s was dropped off with the paperwork for the money-changers, which Glóin was Head of the Guild for.

Bombur’s was with the food shipment, while Dwalin’s was placed on top of his war hammer while he was teaching some guards unarmed combat.

Bifur’s was the only one he delivered in person and it was only then that he realized there was one for him.

Bofur opened it once he returned to his quarters and he unfolded it slowly.

_Bofur,_

_Thank you. Especially for Frodo. Please do visit. Bring Bifur, if he wishes to come, but I do not think Bombur will come. He most likely wishes to stay with his family, and I cannot fault him that._

_Keep safe._

_Your friend,_

_Bilbo Baggins of the Shire_

_P.S. Keep watch over that book while near Ori. He’ll want to steal it._

It was short and simple.

There was no reason for that second piece of paper that was there.

Bofur frowned and carefully removed the short note to find that Bilbo had folded in a picture with the letter. He carefully spread it out, only to find that it was a picture of himself sitting on a log, laughing at something beyond the page, with shadowy trees behind.

It made him think of the quest, of one of the nights that the Company had laughed and joked, even Thorin had smiled, just a bit.

Before Bilbo was accepted into the group, it looked a lot like that time.

He leaned down a little closer to the picture, and saw where he could see some outlines, as if another picture was there, as if it was part of something bigger, and then he was carefully noticing the soft fraying at the edge, all down it.

Like it doesn’t just look like it was a big picture, but like it _was_ part of a big picture.

Bofur didn’t hesitate.

He grabbed his hat and rushed back out to find everyone.

* * *

It did not take long for Bofur to get the word out through the Company that they needed to meet, now.

Fíli and Kíli came first, eyes red rimmed and clinging to the picture in their hands, for Bilbo had kept them together, as they were in all things. He had written them together and drawn them together and it was easy to see that they were supposed to be in the center, in a manner of speaking, for the fire was there, nearly prominent.

Then came Nori, who was giving Bofur an unimpressed look, followed quickly by Ori and Dori, then Bifur who just spread his picture of himself whittling out on the table.

Bombur came shortly after and then it was like removing the dam, until the only ones missing were Balin and Thorin.

* * *

_Dear Thorin, son of Thráin, King-Under-the-Mountain,_

_I hope this letter finds you well, for I am safe within the Shire. Were any letters sent to me, I am afraid I never received them. There were some problems with my return and, as such, my postal service._

_I hope that Erebor is prospering and that all is running smoothly._

_I hope you are happy._

_At your service,_

_Bilbo Baggins of the Shire_

* * *

Balin watched Thorin as he stared at the letter, ignoring the picture of himself smiling, in a manner of speaking, at something off the page. From what he had heard, Bofur had requested that they all meet and Balin stepped forward.

“Thorin,” Balin stated and Thorin looked up.

“He says he hopes I am happy, and says there were problems with his postal service, which was why he did not get our letters. But what prompted him to write now?” Thorin murmured.

Balin could guess, however, as with Bofur’s return the letters had come.

Bofur had seen their Burglar.

* * *

The talk dissolves, after they meet together and the gift their Burglar made for them spread out across the table.

Bofur just stares at it, and when they talk about going to the Shire, Bofur stands, all rage and fury, his chair clattering to the ground. “Haven’t we done enough? Haven’t we uprooted him and hurt him enough?” he demanded, furious pain coating every word.

“And what would you know of it?” Thorin demanded.

Bofur floundered, briefly, before he almost seemed to shut down. He looked away, briefly, before he righted his chair and sat down once more. “May I request the right to visit West?” he questioned.

Thorin eyes him, considering, while Bombur frowns. “You just got back,” the chef protests and Bofur shrugged.

“Wanderlust in my blood,” Bofur stated and Bombur huffed while Bifur just began to play with one of the toys he had made, the fearsome thing twisting and twirling around his hands.

“You may go West,” Thorin stated and Bofur looked over at him.

“With the rest that wish to go to the Shire as well,” he added and Bofur seemed to shut them out, eyes never leaving the large portrait as Thorin began to discuss who would go to visit their Burglar and when.

And Balin couldn’t help but wonder what Bofur knew about their Burglar that he was not telling them.


	18. Back and Forth

"Bofur," Balin called and Bofur stilled.

It had been a week since they had put together a bunch of smaller pictures into a bigger picture, since it had been revealed that Bilbo was safe in the Shire.

It has been a week since Balin asked Bofur what he wasn't telling them and Bofur had run.

Because Bofur didn't know how to explain what he had seen, explain what they had  _done_  without getting angry, or crying, or lashing out in general. "Balin," he answered softly, turning to face the older Dwarf.

"I think we need to talk, don't you?"

Bofur let out a low sigh and nodded, following Balin's lead unquestioningly.

He wondered, as he walked through the quiet halls of Erebor, the distant sounds of mining echoing up, how Bilbo and Frodo were doing.

* * *

"Uncle Bilbo!" came a squeal, high-pitched and scattering and Bilbo, still dressed in black though his vest now had a pattern on it, laughed through the pain as the four year old Pippin Took stumbled into his bad leg.

"Pippin!" his nine year old cousin, Merry Brandybuck, exclaimed as he carefully peeled a still giggling Pippin off of Bilbo's leg.

"It's quite all right Merry. How are you doing Pippin?" Bilbo answered, slowly shifting to sit on the bench set up for him by the various Took relations in the Party Meadow, leaning heavily on his cane as he did so while Merry wrapped his arms firmly around the oblivious Pippin's chest to keep him from careening back into Bilbo's bad leg.

The last week of Winterfilth was being celebrated, to put the earth to sleep and prepare for winter.

It was also the last large-scale party anyone was going to have besides Birthdays till First and Second Yule, which celebrated the new year.

"Good! Look what the hatted Dwarf gave me!" Pippin exclaimed as he fought his pockets to pull out the toy and Bilbo smiled as Pippin, Merry with his arms still wrapped firmly around Pippin's chest, finally pulled the top out proudly.

"And what a fine gift it is too."

Merry smiled into Pippin's brown curls and Bilbo wondered, distantly, if once upon a time, Fíli and Kíli had looked as these two did and did not hesitate to ruffle Merry's blond curls, earning more giggles from Pippin, somehow, and a smile from Merry.

"Well, now, is that an unguarded sweet plate I spy?" Bilbo offered with a mischievous smile and both looked over before they shared a smile and ran off.

Bilbo chuckled softly and wondered how Erebor was, with winter sweeping through the lands

* * *

Bofur settled down across from Balin and pulled at his hat.

"Now, how is Bilbo?" Balin asked and Bofur resisted the urge to scowl.

He should have known that Balin would have picked it up, would have realized that Bofur had seen their Burglar. "Well. Could...could be a great deal better. He has a nephew living with him now," Bofur answered softly, not looking at Balin before he looked at the wall.

"What happened?" Balin questioned softly.

Bofur thought of the mean-spirited Hobbit lady who resided in Bag-End, and the way Bilbo limped. Of the large smial and the way Frodo clung to Bilbo and the tea tin with the presents that sat on the mantel.

He thought of the broken hearted Hobbit who dressed in black and tried to pretend that his bad days weren’t and his hand clenched.

“Too much,” he answered softly.

* * *

Bilbo bit back a laugh as Merry and Pippin, along with Sam and Frodo (Frodo who was more color than black and who looked so  _happy_  that it made Bilbo’s heart ache a bit, but in a good way) ran around with a platter of tarts over their heads.

“Bilbo,” a voice, old and tired, greeted and his amusement died as Bilbo whipped around to stare up at Gandalf.

“Gandalf,” he responded weakly, his smile barely pulling at his face at all.

* * *

Balin waited patiently, but Bofur kept silent, his eyes restlessly searching the wall, as if it would have all his answers.

"What do you mean Bofur?" Balin asked, his endless patience always winning out against Dwarvish stubbornness.

Bofur sighed softly. "He walks with a cane. He has days where he can't move around, has to have a pain syrup. His nephew is so young, but old too, aged by grief and Bilbo tries his hardest to fight his way out of bed when he's near screaming from the pain, and that's not the worst of it," Bofur answered softly.

* * *

"Are you up for taking a walk with me Bilbo?" Gandalf asked and Bilbo slowly levered himself up.

"Always," he panted out softly and leaned heavily on his cane as he began to limp heavily over to Gandalf with a smile.

They walked for a time, until Bilbo's leg hurt too fiercely, the pair chatting idly about the Shire until Bilbo sat on the low wall surrounding the Party Field, more for decorative purposes than practical. "Whatever happened my dear friend?" Gandalf asked.

* * *

"What happened?" Balin asked in shock.

"To the leg? I don't know. Everything else? Us. All our fault, even the leg in the end. We did what we did to him, or were indirectly the cause of it," Bofur stated and he felt his rage rise up in his chest, choking him as tears began to spill from his eyes.

"Haven't we done enough? Do we have to go in and destroy his fragile peace again? Can't we just leave it alone and be content with letters?" Bofur snarled, turning towards Balin in his fury as he stood, the chair tilting dangerously, but not falling backwards.

Bofur's only answer was shocked silence.

* * *

"I changed, Gandalf. Just as you said I would, but I do not think you meant in this way," Bilbo answered softly as he choked on his own tears, covering his face with his free hand.

He did not hesitate to collapse into the hug given by Gandalf, surrounding himself in the comfort the Wizard gave off.

It was sometime before he rejoined the party and was immediately swarmed by four eager faunts, Pippin being held close by Merry to prevent another accidental jarring of his bad leg.

"Can you tell us a story of your ad-ven-ture Uncle Bilbo?" Pippin questioned eagerly as Bilbo settled, with a groan, upon the bench.

"Of course. Which one?" Bilbo asked as the four settled in front of him, quickly bringing other children to sit around the four.

"One about the King! We  _never_ hear stories about the King!" Pippin squealed out and Bilbo felt all the air leave his lungs.

" _Please_ Uncle Bilbo?" Pippin asked, and only Merry's grip around his chest kept him from clinging to Bilbo.

"Yes, please Uncle Bilbo?" Merry asked, while Frodo stared up at him with wide blue eyes and Sam shifted a bit.

Bilbo felt his shoulders sag slightly and he tried to smile. "Yes, of course. Let's see..." he stated and soon began this tale of a King, a great and majestic King without a Mountain and that song he sung that pulled a Hobbit out his door.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, Bofur snapped and Merry and Pippin _insisted_ on calling Bilbo "Uncle Bilbo" and Frodo allowed it...somehow.
> 
> That boy's level of Dwarvish possessiveness is seriously scary to hear about.
> 
> (No, seriously, why is my Frodo so possessive?)


	19. What Spring Will Bring

Bilbo’s hand shook as pulled an egg out of box they came in, doing his best not to tighten his grip as pain flared up his left leg, though a secondary flare had him flinching again, a ragged cry of agony being cut off by him biting his lower lip hard enough to bleed.

He hadn’t even realized he had crushed the egg in his grip until he felt the thick and sticky yolk running down his wrist and down his arm from under the cuff. He shuddered all over, though from the pain or the feel of the yolk, he wasn’t sure.

“Uncle Bilbo, I can do that. Why don’t you sit down?” Frodo called, but Bilbo just shook his head, managing to let the shell go to fall into the unused bowl.

A towel was pressed into Bilbo’s hand and he leaned heavily against the counter as he wiped off his arm and hand, feeling dizzy and disoriented.

“It is mid-Afteryule. You can sit, I can crack the eggs!” Frodo insisted softly, but Bilbo just shook his head again, already working to crack another egg.

This time it went into the batter mixture for pancakes.

“Uncle Bilbo, please sit down,” Frodo begged softly, even as Bilbo used the counter and his good leg as his support, trembling and shaking as another egg got into the mixture.

“It is okay, I can do it,” Frodo stated but Bilbo just shook his head before catching himself on the counter, barely missing the bowl of batter as a strangled, shaking, sob worked its way from Bilbo’s throat.

“Uncle Bilbo,” Frodo pressed softly, even as Bilbo shook his head again.

“No, no, Frodo. Go sit down. First breakfast is just going to be a bit late, that’s all,” Bilbo answered, his voice cracking at various points before he shut the egg box.

“Actually, could you put this way for me? There’s a good lad,” Bilbo murmured as Frodo obeyed, watching worriedly as he rushed the eggs back to the cold cellar, his breath plumes of mist from the way the snow piled about outside.

Frodo rushed back, wrapping himself up more in his thick robe, and he settled himself at the kitchen table as Bilbo began to work on making pancakes, Frodo watching with great concern.

“Uncle Bilbo,” he tried again, but stopped at the way he seemed to hunch in on himself.

He knew Bilbo felt guilty about them missing, both, Yule days.

That he felt guilty that Frodo had been left to make all the meals for the last two weeks, even if it was prepared things he made it all with.

That didn’t mean he didn’t want Bilbo to sit, but when the platter of pancakes was settled on the table and Bilbo sat down heavily, unable to even move to take some, Frodo just whispered his thanks.

“I think I’ll be having some tea soon,” Bilbo murmured in return, telling Frodo that Bilbo was so far gone in agony he wasn’t even hearing the world around him.

Frodo makes the tea while Bilbo attempts to eat.

It takes a while for Bilbo to eat enough for the syrupy tea not to upset his stomach. He barely makes it back to the bed and Frodo ignores the covered mirror in the corner as he gives Bilbo the mug of tea, terrified to give him more than two levels.

The next morning, Frodo hangs a lantern in the window and the Gamgees suddenly have reasons to be in the smial.

Bilbo is too wracked with pain to even notice the guests and Frodo snuggles into Bilbo’s side, clinging tightly to his guardian.

* * *

“Do you think it’ll snow as much as the Fell Winter?” Frodo asked as he buried himself into Uncle Bilbo’s side.

“I hope not. Fighting is a terrible thing,” Uncle Bilbo responded softly, running his hand through Frodo’s hair.

Occasionally Uncle Bilbo twisted one of the curls around his fingers, which Frodo found oddly comforting, something that _only_ Uncle Bilbo did.

Frodo sunk further into the comfort that Uncle Bilbo offered, even when the mirror remained covered in the corner of the room. “Then why does Merry want to join in a battle so bad?” he questioned softly.

Uncle Bilbo shuddered a bit, his hand stilling for a moment, before it returned to running through Frodo’s hair. “Battles are worse, Frodo my boy. Much worse,” he answered and Frodo looked up at him.

The syrup always loosened Uncle Bilbo’s tongue, not that he ever hid anything from Frodo before, but he usually deflected if he didn’t want to talk about it. “Then why do all the books talk about how glorious it is?” Frodo asked softly and Uncle Bilbo let out a tired, pained chuckle, even as Mrs. Gamgee carefully stepped into the room, holding a tray of lunch.

“Because, Frodo my boy, books _never_ tell the whole truth,” Uncle Bilbo answered softly with a smile and Frodo’s eyes shifted over the red book with the slight silver embellishment on it that Mrs. Gamgee had brought in when Uncle Bilbo mumbled about his book.

“Even yours Uncle Bilbo?” Frodo asked softly as Mrs. Gamgee carefully set the tray down on the bedside table on Frodo’s side.

“Most especially mine, Frodo.”

“Why?”

“Because, Frodo my boy, some stories just can’t be told,” Uncle Bilbo responded softly.

Frodo eventually pulled his eyes away and wondered what stories Uncle Bilbo kept locked up in his heart.

* * *

Bilbo Baggins spent the rest of winter practically bed bound.

Esmeralda and Eglantine (sisters by marriage though they might as well have been sisters by blood for how close they were, much to Paladin’s horror) came to stay towards the end of winter, bringing Merry and Pippin with them.

As spring came to the Shire, bringing with it colorful flowers that peeked through the clinging snow, across the Misty Mountains, a Dwarven toymaker moved to sneak away with the next caravan leaving the Lonely Mountain.

* * *

Bofur stared at the letter of permission from Balin, signed by Lady Dís, before he focused on stocking his travel wagon, the early sun's light catching the icy snow. "Hullo!" Kíli greeted and Bofur reeled back.

"Kíli, what are ya doin' here?" Bofur asked.

"Coming with you, of course," Fíli stated as he leaned against Bofur's wagon.

"Oh no you two aren't! Yer mother would..." Bofur protested, only to stop as Kíli handed him a letter, his leg clinking softly as he moved.

It was simple permission from Dís and with Balin's seal. He stared at the princes, stared at the letter and shoved them both into the back of the wagon. "Keep quiet, use your father's name, and pray that they keep quiet," Bofur hissed as he shut them up in his travel wagon.

It carried himself, Bifur, and Bombur before.

It would carry him and two idiot princes next.

He quietly hooked Umzim and Usakad up to the wagon and gave a quiet nod to the leader, who walked past him without checking for travel papers, and watched as the rest of the wagons, travel wagons for living in and heavy carts full of wares.

The caravan would skirt the Shire, but Bofur would go into it.

Hopefully the two princes wouldn’t cause _too_ much trouble.

* * *

In Fíli and Kíli's receiving room, a letter sat on the table.

**Gone on an adventure, Amad.**

_We promise to be safe._

_Love,_

_Fíli_ **and Kíli**


	20. The Twisting Turning Trail

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I named the chapter this just so I could have it be all "t"s.
> 
> Also, Namadel means "(the) sister of (all) sisters" in Neo-Khuzdul.

Fíli panted softly as he threw his weight into pushing the wagon while Bofur slid the board in front of the mud trapped wheels, Kíli keeping a firm grip on the reins to keep the ponies in check, though they were rather calm despite the rumble of thunder above.

"Try again!" Bofur shouted over the downpour and Fíli could barely hear the sound of Kíli urging the ponies to move, even as Bofur joined Fíli in pushing on the wagon, quietly cursing dirt roads and spring rain storms, though they were hardly the only ones stuck in the mud.

Others around them had gotten trapped and Fíli let out a surprised sound as the wagon moved forward, rolling onto the cobblestone path while Bofur stumbled forward and Fíli fell into the mud. He coughed as Bofur helped him up with a simple, "Up ya go lad," and then they were hurrying to where Kíli was waiting for them, the ponies heaving slightly in the chilly spring rain.

"This feels like the beginning of winter all over again," Kíli complained.

"Called the first spring rains! Everything's cold. Surprised that the road isn't mud soup with the way it has been pourin' down the last week!" Bofur called and shoved at Kíli to get him back into the wagon.

"Yer mother will  _kill_ me if you get sick," Bofur stated as he took position in the driver's bench while Fíli worked on getting the worst of the mud off before he stepped into the wagon.

"Shouldn't we help the others?" Fíli asked, wondering if he had been heard until Bofur shook his head.

"They won't accept it.Kíli'll figure how to hang up your clothes to dry once ya get in," Bofur explained and Fíli nodded before he stepped got into the wagon, Kíli shutting the door behind him and helping to get his soaked clothes off.

"You know, this is much harder than I was expecting," Kíli muttered and Fíli gave him a look.

Kíli shrugged a little before he threw a cotton towel at Fíli so he could dry off while Kíli hung Fíli's clothes next to Kíli's own near the wall and out of the way, though over the long, metal, trough he had for the purpose.

Once dry and dressed, Fíli sat down next to Kíli on their bed and Kíli let out a low whine as they began moving again. "We've only been on the road for ten days, Kíli. It can't be as bad as you think it to be," Fíli stated and Kíli glared at Fíli.

"You try sitting in here for hours at a time. At least you get to sit up front with Bofur for most of the day," Kíli grumbled quietly and both groaned as they hit a rough patch of road that caused the wagon to jostle a bit more than usual.

While the wagon rarely jumped badly, or jarred them to the point of wishing they had stayed in Erebor, there were times that the rumbling made their teeth ache.

“Well, at least Thorin hasn’t caught up with us,” Kíli stated.

“Or mother,” Fíli added.

The pair immediately paled at the thought of their mother coming after them and when the next rumble of thunder crashed above their heads, Kíli let out a shriek and clung to his brother.

“I think we might have not thought this plan through very well,” Kíli muttered.

“Well, Amad will forgive us. Eventually,” Fíli responded and Kíli just buried his face into Fíli’s shoulder.

The pair remained subdued for the rest of the day, to the point that Bofur actually pressed the back of his freezing cold hand to their foreheads when they ate dinner with the rest of the caravan.

* * *

“For the last time Dís, you cannot come with us,” Thorin stated as he finished packing up the last of the ponies.

They had forgone any wagons due to the fact that they needed to catch up with Fíli and Kíli, who had possibly left in the caravans wake. “Spring rains, Thorin! They could be caught in the mud, they could be dead in a ditch!” Dís snapped.

“Or they could be with Bofur,” Balin stated as he made sure the ponies all had the supplies.

He was staying behind with Dís along with Bombur and Glóin, both of whom had a family to watch over. Everyone else, however, was going after Fíli and Kíli, with a group turning them back to Erebor while the rest continued to the Shire to make amends with Bilbo.

“Bofur would never let them travel with him!” Bombur argued, defending his brother’s honor.

“He would if he thought they had permission,” Bifur grumbled out, even as he helped Bombur load up the last of the pack ponies.

Dís stilled at that and then covered her with one hand before she ran it down her face, over her own close cropped beard before she hissed out, “I am going to _kill_ those little morons.”

“I can’t allow that Dís. I need heirs,” Thorin responded.

“Well, there is that nice lady in the Iron Hills that I am sure will be over _joyed_ to be married to you,” Dís snapped and Thorin visibly flinched, knowing _exactly_ who she was speaking of.

Said lady had wrote many congratulations to Dís twice over and thanked her, saying she would pray to Mahal for him to shower Dís and her sons with blessings all over upon Thorin saying that he could not ask for a marriage, for he had heirs and nothing to offer a wife.

She had also praised Thorin, but not nearly as extensively as Dís, and had immediately turned to her craft.

If it was learned that Thorin no longer had heirs, she would be among the first contacted for a marriage contract.

Dís smirked a bit and then it dropped as she placed her hands on Thorin’s shoulders. She stared up at him calmly and Thorin stilled. “Thorin, just bring my boys back no more damaged than when…wait, no. You failed the first time I asked you to do that,” she stated and dropped her hands, turning to Dwalin and doing the same thing while Thorin just covered his face with a sigh.

“Dwalin, please bring my boys back no more damaged than when they left,” she stated and Dwalin glanced at Thorin, before he looked back at her.

“I’ll do my best, but it’ll take a lot to keep me from beating them both upside the heads,” Dwalin answered and Dís considered him for a moment before she nodded.

“Fair enough,” she responded before she walked quickly over to Thorin, knocking their foreheads together.

“Keep safe,” she demanded.

“Of course,” Thorin answered.

“Because if you die, I’ll have to bring you back to life just so I can kill you again. And then bring you back to life, take your sword arm, and beat you to death with it. And then bring you back and this time keep you alive so I can yell at you. And I know you’ll keep my boys safe,” Dís whispered and Thorin just nodded in agreement, cursing his lack of control as tears slipped from his eyes.

“Always, Namadel,” Thorin answered and then they separated, Thorin quickly mounting up on his pony while the rest did the same.

And then they rode out of Erebor, leaving Dís behind once more.

“They’ll be fine,” Balin stated and Dís snorted before she turned to him.

“I have a hard time believing that, especially since they weren’t the first time they travelled across the world from me,” Dís answered.

“But this time, there is no dragon and no Orc hunting for Thorin’s head,” Balin reassured softly.

Dís just sighed and shook her head before she looked back. Only then did she head inside, and back to the duties of Regent, Balin following close behind.

(Bombur stayed for a time, till his wife came and tugged him back inside, reminding him of his duties in the kitchens and the fact that his friends would return, one day. And Bombur followed after her, smiling as she chattered about the Hobbit she had never met and the day she possibly would.)


	21. Forgiveness, or a Talk Thereof

Bilbo sighed softly as Esmeralda handed him a cup of tea. “Isn’t Saradoc missing you by now?” he asked softly, wincing as a spike of pain ran up his leg and his temple throbbed shortly after, as if his leg was somehow connected to his brain.

When Esmeralda didn’t answer Bilbo hid a smile in his teacup, noticing that it was willow bark tea. He raised an eyebrow at her and she sniffed, adjusting her skirts slightly. “You have a headache and your leg’s hurting you, but you don’t want to be abed, something I hardly blame you for, and I happen to have a headache as well. Where is Eglantine?” Esmeralda answered and Bilbo gave a nod in agreement before nodded to the window.

“Outside with the children. Which means she is possibly showing them how to steal crops from Farmer Maggot,” Bilbo answered and Esmeralda sighed.

“ _I’m_ the Took by birth! Why aren’t I doing that?” Esmeralda stated.

“Because you lost the coin toss you think I know nothing about,” Bilbo responded softly, though he hid another smile in his teacup.

Silence reigned for a moment and Esmeralda stared at him before she sniffed and tossed her honey curls over her shoulder. “Well, you’re wrong,” she stated.

“Oh?” Bilbo questioned.

“I didn’t lose. I won,” Esmeralda explained.

Bilbo startled hard enough to spill his tea and she pretended she didn’t notice. “We have coin tosses to decide who gets to stay with you, because otherwise we’d never decide. And the winner gets to do so,” she continued and Bilbo set his tea to the side as he patted himself off with a handkerchief.

“I’m just…”

“You’re not _just_ anything, Bilbo. You’re a Baggins and a Took, and an Adventurer, as well as a Teacher and Storyteller. There is no _just_ with you, Bilbo Baggins, and if you try to say so again in my presence, I’ll hit you with the broom, injured or no,” Esmeralda corrected and sat back with an irritated huff.

Bilbo flushed lightly at that and focused on his tea once again.

Or he would have, had four faunts hadn’t come stumbling in, covered in mud, followed by an equally muddy Eglantine. Frodo was beaming and Bilbo chuckled at them all. “Oh, my, who are these mud monsters in my smial?” he questioned, and laughed louder as Pippin stumbled forward and clung to his good leg.

“We’ve come for your food!” Pippin exclaimed and immediately tried to chew on Bilbo’s trousers, ignoring his mother’s cry of, “Peregrin Took!”

“Well, I’m afraid I don’t have any food for mud monsters, but I do have food for squeaky clean faunts,” Bilbo answered and laughed as Pippin’s eyes widened before he ran off, tracking mud everywhere as he rushed for the bathing room, followed quickly by the rest.

Eglantine paused only long enough to apologize for all the mud and promised to clean it up before rushing to get clean herself in a separate bathing room.

Esmeralda chuckled and sighed. “Faunts,” she mused softly and Bilbo shook his head before he sighed softly.

“I better actually get started on lunch or there will be a very sad Pippin staring up at me,” Bilbo stated, shifting to get up when Esmeralda stood up.

“Don’t you dare. Your leg has been bothering you terribly today and if you don’t want to be on the syrup later tonight, you just stay still. I can cook. Besides, I’ve been missing it,” she stated and Bilbo sighed as he leaned back.

“You’ve been my guest for a month Esmeralda and I’ve never cooked for you once,” he protested softly and Esmeralda snorted.

“I’m a cousin not a _guest_. Besides, I came over because Saradoc is…well, he is being Saradoc and, really, I love him dearly but…” Esmeralda answered and sighed softly.

“But you got into an argument and you refuse to apologize but you don’t know who is in the wrong anymore, so you’re not sure if you go back if it will be undermine your authority within the halls,” Bilbo supplied quietly and she nodded a bit, her curls bouncing against her cheeks.

“Just go back Esmeralda. You obviously miss him,” Bilbo responded softly and Esmeralda sighed, her fingers twitching briefly before she nodded in agreement.

“After luncheon. But I’m not forgiving him!” Esmeralda answered.

Bilbo gave a smile. “I never asked you to. But keeping yourself from your heart is doing you no favors, though I am sure Pippin has loved being in a house of, mostly, boys,” Bilbo responded quietly sipping his tea and Esmeralda gave a nod.

“Well, I better get started on a ‘good-bye’ luncheon. See you next week?” she responded, straightening her skirts.

“Of course,” Bilbo answered softly and smiled sadly into his teacup before he set it to the side and looked out the eastern window, rubbing at his chest without thinking about it.

* * *

“Mahal curse it,” Bofur muttered softly as Fíli and Kíli helped to keep the wagon up so Bofur could replace the cracked wheel.

“What?” Kíli questioned.

“Axle s’not gonna hold up to the Shire. We’re gonna have to leave the caravan at Rivendell to get it replaced and hope that it holds up till then,” Bofur explained and Fíli let out a low groan, even as Bofur finished replacing the wheel.

“Will they even have forges?” Kíli asked.

“They do according to Bilbo,” Bofur answered softly, remembering when they spoke on Rivendell and Bilbo had mentioned, in passing, forges.

Not Dwarven forges, but it would work in a pinch.

“Why is this so much faster than getting _to_ the Lonely Mountain?” Fíli asked.

“Going to the Lonely Mountain, we were bein’ secretive, supposedly. There was a ‘don’t tell anyone’ clause in there, about the specifics at least. S’why Bifur came, more or less. He didn’t like me bein’ all secretive,” Bofur answered without pausing.

“So…we traipsed through the Wilds and nearly got crushed by stone giants for secrecy?” Kíli questioned.

Bofur considered and nodded, even as the two brothers slowly lowered the wagon back down, panting softly as they did so. “Well, that sucks. We should’ve just done this. Gotten a bunch of wagons, loaded them with goods, and made a caravan to the East. They would’ve called us mad, but a lot more would have joined up, we would have gotten there faster, and there probably would have been no Battle,” Kíli stated.

Fíli opened his mouth to argue, before closing it again and looking to Bofur, who shrugged a bit. “I don’t assume to know the minds of Lords and Kings. I just came for the free beer,” Bofur responded and Kíli giggled like a child on a sweet high before carefully limping in.

“Let Fíli be without your presence a bit. You need more rein work,” Bofur stated and Fíli got in carefully while Kíli nearly skipped, somehow, over to the driver’s bench.

Bofur quickly showed Kíli how to harness the ponies up when rapid hoofbeats filled the air.

Kíli’s head snapped up and Bofur followed his gaze to find a pair of Elves, dark haired and on equally dark horses, riding as fast as they could down the road, calling apologies as they went, though their mounts never came close to any Dwarf.

“What’s that about?” Kíli questioned.

“Don’t know. We’ll find out eventually. Now help me get the ponies hitched up or we’ll get left behind,” Bofur returned.

Kíli nodded rapidly and soon he was sitting on the driver’s bench next to Bofur, with Fíli leaning out the ‘window’ behind the driver’s bench to watch over their shoulders.

(Both Fíli and Kíli wondered where Thorin, or their mother, was.)

* * *

“Why is it whenever we get into Mirkwood, we end up prisoner?” Nori questioned as they loaded up their ponies, thankful their things were, mostly, spoil-proof.

“We weren’t taken prisoner Nori,” Ori chided as he mounted up on his own pony.

“No? Then why was the Prince so determined to keep us _here_?” Dwalin questioned as he tied the last bag to his own pony’s saddle before mounting up.

Ori gave a shrug and glanced back. “He seems to be preoccupied at the moment, as he’s not stopping us now,” Ori stated.

“Thranduil sent him on spider patrol and told him something in Elvish that had him snapping back,” Nori explained and Dori gave him a scolding look, which the mostly ex-thief ignored.

“We best hurry before he finds a reason to return and lock us in the dungeons,” Thorin stated as he mounted up as well, focusing on getting his company out of there while Óin tutted slightly over Bifur’s hand.

He had cut it somewhere and no one was entirely sure if they wanted to know how he managed it between that morning to now.

Once Óin and Bifur were settled, Thorin set them out on as grueling a pace as he could set without harming the ponies.

* * *

Thranduil eyed his glass of wine as he considered the Hobbit and turned his attention to an Elf that had managed to anger him.

“I need you to ride as fast as you can to Erebor with this letter. It _must_ get from your hands to Chief Adviser Balin’s, is that understood?” Thranduil questioned and the Elf in question nodded rapidly before doing so.

There was something he needed to get to the bottom to before he sent Legolas out after the group of Dwarves.

Whatever had happened to that letter his son had sent?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So...LadyRedFeather...I think I derailed the prompt a bit.
> 
> Possibly.
> 
> Also, I was looking at Elladan's page on Tolkien Gateway and it gave me an idea. It is a small idea, but something I see Elladan doing. So...a few chapters.


	22. Visitors at the Gate

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I dedicate this chapter to growl_meow.
> 
> Because otherwise ElEl (Elladan and Elrohir) would not have shown up for a chapter or two.
> 
> (And the reason why I was privately cackling while reading growl_meow's comment is now partially revealed.)

Elladan and Elrohir had ridden as fast as they could when Legolas told them that the Dwarrows of Bilbo's Company were heading to the Shire, to see Bilbo.

Why now they did not know, but they had overtaken a Dwarven caravan, apologizing as they went, memories of Khazad-dûm (Moria as it was known to those outside of the Dwarrows) singing through their minds, though shadowed with how their Hobbit friend had been treated by the decedents of their Dwarven friends so long ago now.

Gwilwileth, Elladan's black mare, andHelcheth, Elrohir's dark bay mare, had galloped as if Durin's Bane was at their very heels, refusing to rest even when the twins pulled lightly at their reins in an attempt to slow them down.

Even when the rain slicked the dirt into mud, even as they raced under the cover of trees, something that had terrified both brothers as their faithful companions seemed ready to gallop themselves into a grave.

But, no matter what they did, short of actually doing a controlled fall off their mares' backs, the mares were as determined as their riders to get to Rivendell and the Shire beyond, despite the fact that neither of the mares had entered the peaceful land of the Shire. No, their mounts just sensed the urgency that burned in their blood strong enough to make them leave Orc hunts and were determined to calm their riders.

When they clattered into Rivendell, their father was waiting for them.

Neither were sure how to feel to learn a thirst for vengeance had robbed Bilbo of the comfort and support he needed.

Again.

So instead they let the guilt take root in their hearts, delaying their journey even as the Dwarrows drew ever closer.

* * *

Elrohir gently shushed Helcheth as he watched Elladan listen to something Ada was telling him when he heard the approaching sound of a pair of equines, along with the hitching rumble of a wagon barely holding it together.

Elrohir looked over to find himself watching three Dwarrows walking up.

And Elrohir recognized the one leading the ponies by his floppy hat. "Weren't you one of Bilbo's companions?" Elrohir asked, feeling his eyes narrow slightly and Helcheth stamped her hoof against the ground sharply in response to his growing rage.

"Elrohir, be polite!" Ada demanded and Elrohir felt his fingers twitch slightly before he nodded his consent.

He gave Bofur an apologetic nod of his head and felt Elladan step up next to him, leading Gwilwileth. A touch of fingers to the wrist, the way the brunette seemed to look between the two in confusion, and the way the hooded one (that Elrohir knew to be a Dwarf from the Line of Durin, most likely the Heir to the Throne, all from his bearing, much like how Ada could say who Thorin was by the same, though he had bent the truth slightly when speaking of _how_ ), allowed the words of apology to unstick from his throat.

"Not a problem, Master Elf," Bofur answered cheerfully and Elrohir just nodded slightly, before turning to give his brother a look while Ada moved forward to speak with the floppy hatted Dwarf.

"Bofur, it is good to see you again. Were you able to deliver all the letters Bilbo gave you?" Ada greeted warmly and both brothers' heads snapped over to stare at Bofur in surprise.

"Aye. That's...the problem, as it were. The entire Company wants to descend on his doorstep, and they're not really keen on just leaving it to letters," Bofur answered and Ada's head twitched to the side.

"From what my sons tell me, that would be a bit hard to do," Ada answered and the brunette opened his mouth, most likely to ask, when the hooded Dwarf's hand snapped out and covered it.

Elladan snickered and Elrohir subtly stepped on his foot.

"Oh, aye. But they're stubborn," Bofur responded while Elladan drove his elbow into Elrohir's rib cage.

Elrohir barely managed not to make a sound of surprised pain at the attack and didn't hesitate to shift his foot to dig his heel into the top of his brother's foot while Ada asked, "And would keeping it to letters really be the _best_ for Bilbo?"

"Most likely not," Bofur admitted, even as Elladan tried to push past the pain Elrohir was inflicting on him.

Before Elladan could respond properly, Ada sighed and turned to give them a brief look.

They immediately stilled and pretended like they weren't just doing what they were doing, and Ada shook his head before he faced Bofur again. "You know as well as I that Bilbo's Shire is mostly just a very pretty cage. I would think that, as his friend, you would not want to keep him there," Ada stated and it was then that Elrohir realized that this was not being said _just_  for the Dwarrows, but for  _them_ as well.

Elrohir let out a curse in Sindarin and Helcheth snorted, stamping her foot, ignoring Ada's snap to watch his language.

"I will not sit by and let them descend down on him without warning again!" Elrohir snarled, still in Sindarin, unable to even _think_ in Westron, let alone speak in it.

Elladan reached out for him, possibly to calm him down, but Elrohir shook off his twin’s hand while Ada focused entirely on him. "Elrohir it is not polite to speak in a language not everyone present understands," Ada scolded and Elrohir resisted the urge to punch him.

Because this was his father and Elrohir would never forgive himself later for it.

"Sorry. But I will not let him be descended on, again, without warning! They've done  _enough_ ," Elrohir snarled.

Ada did not pull away from his fury, even as Elladan tried to tug him back from their father.

"That's what I told...someone. But they're coming to the Shire anyway. And I would really rather fix this axle and get there  _before_ them," Bofur stated and Elrohir turned to face the Dwarrows, only to find the brunette looked confused and shell-shocked, his mouth free from the hooded Dwarf’s hand while the hooded one was unreadable.

And Bofur was just _resigned_.

Looking at those three Dwarrows, all three with _everything_ , and all of Elrohir’s rage drained out of him, leaving him exhausted.

"You'll never fix the axle and get there in time. But you could ride there in time," Ada stated and Elrohir could hear, from his tone, that Ada was not telling them something.

"I can't ride," the brunette Dwarf snapped.

"A missing, damaged, or useless leg is no reason not to ride," Ada returned and it was only then that Elrohir noticed the Dwarvish prosthetic instead of a leg.

Elladan probably had noticed it immediately.

"There is tack that might be able to fit your ponies, Bofur. If that is not an option, there is a horse that can carry two of you while the third rides with Elrohir,” Ada explained.

Definitely something Ada wasn’t telling them.

“They’ll never keep up with Elvish horses,” the hooded Dwarf stated and Ada nodded his consent.

He glanced at the brunette Dwarf, who sighed and crossed his arms. “Fine,” he stated and the hooded Dwarf nodded in agreement.

“I just have one question,” the brunette asked.

Ada gave a nod.

“Why Elrohir? He’s kind-of been glaring at us the entire time. Wouldn’t Elladan be a better choice?” he asked.

“Kíli,” the hooded Dwarf hissed while Bofur covered his face with his hand.

“No. Elladan is an archer. I’m not. I fight with dual swords and a long spear. I also ride with stirrups for that reason, so it’ll be easier for whoever rides with me to mount up as well. Now, who is with me so we can get to Bilbo?” Elrohir answered with the tiniest of shrugs while Elladan worked on settling his quiver properly across his back.

* * *

Elrond smiled as he watched Elladan lead the way to the Shire, followed closely by Fíli and Kíli on Gaeralagos.

And then Elrohir burst out after them, Bofur clinging tightly as they raced toward the Shire.

Just in time to miss Thorin’s Company, as they rode into Rivendell, possibly in hopes that Fíli and Kíli were there.

Elrond would just have to disappoint them.

How unfortunate.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Gwilwileth_ means "butterfly" in Sindarin
> 
>  _Helcheth_ means "bitter cold one" in Sindarin
> 
>  _Gaeralagos_ means "sea storm" in Sindarin.
> 
> (Also, Elrond, why do you have to troll?)


	23. Racing to Bilbo

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is dedicated to Elluvias.
> 
> Because Elluvias is adorably awesome.
> 
> (And Glorfindel is totally Elluvias's fault.)

"This isn't the way to Bag-End!" Fíli shouted and Bofur tightened his arms around Elrohir's waist as they turned down a path that ran through the Bucklands.

The Hobbits watched them go and Elladan would call out greetings before suddenly they were turning up a hidden path that seemed to wind between the hills. "You're right, it isn't," Elrohir responded.

"But how will this take us to Bilbo?" Kíli responded.

"What makes you think he's still in Bag-End?" Elrohir responded, even as Bofur's arms became a vice around his waist.

"Where else would he be?" Fíli demanded.

"Elrohir, stop it!" Elldan snapped in Sindarin and Elrohir gave a harsh huff as the horses picked up speed.

"He's not in Bag-End anymore. He lives as far from Hobbiton as he can get without leaving the Shire with his cousin," Elrohir explained.

Bofur shifted slightly and glanced up. "You knew the boy's parents?" he asked softly and Elrohir nodded.

"How did they die?" Bofur asked, even as Elrohir shook his head.

"We weren't here. Ada got a letter and we learned it recently. To learn someone you were friends with died in an accident shortly after you met them is something that is hard to grasp. I was friends with some for the entirity of their life, and in comparision to that, not being here for their short life cut shorter will always unnerve me, just as it unnerved me for an older and dearer friend," Elrohir responded.

As they slowed around the next turn, the path wound between two hills and they slowed their horses to a light walk as they made their way down the path. "Never came from this way before," Bofur stated.

"We're still not there. This is where the Thain lives. We have to go through here to get to Bilbo's new smial, but he won't take kindly to us galloping through here," Elrohir explained.

"More like his mother wouldn't. She's a vicious sort," Elladan corrected as they rode through as quickly as they could without bringing about a Hobbit's ire and as they manuvered their way through the lane, they spoke with all of them.

The Thain himself came out with a wave for them. "Mister Bofur, good to be seeing you again! And just in time for the spring storms as well. He'll be needing the help, though he'll never admit to it, and that boy of his certainly isn't aiding in it," the Thain greeted while Fíli and Kíli both glanced at Bofur, who ignored them.

“Aye, he’s stubborn,” Bofur answered and the Thain nodded.

“Where’s your blond friend?” the Thain inquired, glancing to Elrohir.

“Back home. He’s sent his greeting with us,” Elladan answered for Elrohir and the Thain nodded.

“Well, off with you. When you reach the felled oak, you can start tearing through here like you’ve got the white wolves on your heels,” the Thain stated and the Elf twins nodded their thanks before they moved on, barely remembering to call out greetings as they went.

They reach the oak and then the horses are careening down a road that barely exists.

There are wagon ruts in there, but the horses practically dance between them, and even as night fell. There were cheery lights to greet them out of hills, but Elrohir only slows slightly before he is nodding to Elladan, who dismounts.

He is through the gate to the smial and ringing the doorbell. There is a form in the doorway, small, and unfamiliar to the two Dwarven princes, but not to Elladan. “Frodo,” he greeted.

“Uncle Bilbo’s got dinner for Dwarves and two Elves ready. He said that someone was coming,” the boy, Frodo, stated.

“But he’s not…there should be room in the barn for the horses. Remember to take off your shoes,” Frodo continued and then he left the doorway while Elladan remained standing.

“Of  _course_ ,” Elladan muttered while Elrohir helped Bofur dismount.

“We’ll have to ask him about that,” Elrohir stated as he dismounted as well, leaving his mount to stand calmly before he helped Kíli down.

Fíli got down on his own and soon they were cooling their horses and putting them into the paddock that had a tall cover that jutted out from the stables and into the, uninhabited, hill.

The horses were content and then they tramped their way inside, only to find Bilbo waiting for them, leaning heavily on his cane.

Fíli and Kíli stilled entirely upon seeing Bilbo with a cane and Kíli stepped forward first, his prosthetic clinking against the hardwood floor. “Mister Boggins,” Kíli whimpered out, as if afraid that he would be turned away.

“Kíli, how many times must I tell you? It is  _Baggins_ , you silly boy,” Bilbo corrected and Kíli let out a broken sob before he wrapped Bilbo up in a tight hug, clinging tightly to him.

And even when Bilbo’s scolded, “Get your muddy boot off!”, only got him a laugh, they still hugged tight.

(Only Elrohir noticed how Frodo tucked a broom back away into a shadowed corner where he had gotten it before wandering over to demand the boot come off with a sharp prod of his foot.)

* * *

“Where are my nephews Lord Elrond?” Thorin asked the moment he found Elrond in the observatory he had once stood in as he handed over the map of his grandfather.

Bofur’s wagon was here, and so were the ponies that pulled it.

He had found them behind one of the stables and a quick search had turned up more evidence. Two key points of evidence that just solidified the fact in Thorin’s mind that his nephews had been here was the cloak hanging out the back of the wagon that was Fíli’s and scuffs across the stonework that could have only come from Kíli’s prosthetic.

“Why do you think I would know, King Thorin? For all you know they could have come in the night and my sons, who are also missing, went with them,” Elrond answered calmly, smiling in a way that made Thorin want to punch him until he stopped looking so smug.

It had been near a week since they had ridden into Rivendell and with this new information in mind, this new discovery boiling in the back of Thorin’s mind, he was not willing to leave well enough alone.

“However, I am surprised that  _you_  don’t know, Thorin son of Thráin, especially as I believe that was your reason for coming,” Elrond added and Thorin nearly cursed.

He was already moving though, calling for his Company to be ready to ride.

Elrond watched him go before he focused on some maps he wished to restore.

Glorfindel had already ridden after Elladan and Elrohir.

Had taken one look at Thorin Oakenshield and was gone, racing after them to the Shire.

Elrond sighed as he paused in working on his map.

No, after Elrohir, to be there when the Dwarves descended.

Elrohir had never seen Thorin Oakenshield, Thorin II, and if Elrond would have had his way, Elrohir never would have.

But Elrohir was loyal (more Dwarvish in loyalty than Elvish, more passionate, more sturdy, more…Dwarvish) to those he called friend, and Bilbo was one he could call his greatest friend that was not also a blood relation.

Elrohir was an adult (older, in some ways, than even Elrond himself, though they were in ways that Elrond desperately wished he had spared his son from), and his brother was also an adult. They could take care of themselves, and Elrond had no cause to keep them safe with him.

Didn’t mean he didn’t want to.

As the clatter of ponies' hooves echoed up to his study, Elrond threw his Sight into the future, only to see Bilbo sitting before the fire, smiling into his tea cup as he talked to Glorfindel.

Elrond wasn't sure if this boded well for the future or not, but he was willing to be optimistic, for Bilbo's sake.

(If nothing else, the entertainment value gained from learning about this all later would be most...gratifying. Especially if Glorfindel was chased out of the smial by a faunt wielding a broom.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As any who read my other works know, I am going to be taking a hiatus to work on my original work.
> 
> My last post for something will be on June 1st, and I will post mystery chapters on July 3rd, when I return.


	24. Night Brings Talks of Tomorrow

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Soooooooooo...
> 
> On June 1st, I was working on Ashen Phoenix chapter, and I got trapped in a headache that could down an elephant till the day before yesterday, where it downsized to downing a horse (which was rather nice jump) to yesterday, where it would down a tiny equine (like Falabella sized), to today, where I can actually function.
> 
> So, surprise chapter for all my readers, because I couldn't update on June 1st.
> 
> And this was going to update June 1st.
> 
> Still on hiatus however.

Kíli had settled on a chair that gave him the best sight lines in the entire hill-home, from the dining room they had just eaten in, to the kitchen they were washing up in, not to mention the sitting room where he had settled with Fíli after Bilbo shooed them out there while Elladan and Elrohir went outside to take care of the mounts.

But, this seat allows him to watch Bilbo limp his way through this place, Frodo his small shadow, carrying dishes despite Bilbo's soft protests and depositing them in the sink where Bofur washes them without any of the liveliness that had colored the time they had in Bag-End.

Kíli missed Bag-End, despite only being there once.

He mostly misses being able to look around this hill-home and see hints of the warm memories made there, of the green door that had started their Quest, and Kíli felt that they should continue on until they were at that green door again, but...

There would be no Bilbo there, however, because Bilbo was here, under the unfamiliar hill with the yellow door instead of the green door (only Bag-End had a green door apparently), and Kíli was at a loss.

He felt like their Quest was incomplete, despite having won Erebor back from a dragon and lived to see Thorin take the throne. "Sorry about the scratches," Kíli stated and Bilbo looked over with a tiny smile from where he was wiping down the table, Frodo out of sight for the first time as he helped Bofur with the dishes, specifically in drying them.

"It is no trouble at all Kíli. But I think you should look after yourself over the floors. You're wincing," Bilbo stated as the door opened to admit the Elf twins into the hill-home.

"Like you take care of yourself when you wince?" Elrohir asked and Bilbo shot the Elf a look, though it was out of Kíli’s range of vision.

Elrohir just snickered as he walked into Kíli’s range of vision, Elladan closely following, though while Elrohir ducked into the kitchen, Elladan settled in the room with Fíli and Kíli.

“I take perfectly adequate care of myself Elrohir,” Bilbo answered and there was a snort from Bofur at that, even as Bilbo turned his look to Bofur instead.

“Careful Uncle, or the Green Lady will have the hill cave in on you,” Frodo stated.

“Isn’t it past your bedtime?” Bilbo answered as Elrohir opened up the cupboard to remove a tin.

“But three of your Dwarves are here, Uncle Bilbo and I haven’t had a chance to meet them properly yet,” Frodo stated as he hopped into sight.

“Mmm-hmmm. Tomorrow. Bath, then bed, hop to my troublesome imp,” Bilbo answered and leaned on his oaken cane heavily before he swatted at Frodo as the boy scampered by, earning a mad giggle from the curly haired lad.

Bilbo sighed softly and shook his head a bit before he swatted at Elrohir until he was out of the kitchen. “And I do not need that tea you irksome Elf,” Bilbo added, even when Elladan hummed in placating agreement.

Kíli ducked his head slightly at that, amused by how stubborn their…

No, he wasn’t theirs anymore, was he?

Something had happened to him and left him crippled and Kíli was willing to bet it was somehow, someway, the Company’s fault.

Well, Bilbo was being stubborn and Kíli watched the way he limped off at Frodo’s call that he was in bed.

“I’ll show you to your rooms when I get back. We can talk more tomorrow,” Bilbo stated and Fíli nodded in agreement even as Kíli resolved to do anything _but_ that.

* * *

“So, in your letter to us when you said ‘something happened to keep you from our letters’, or something like that, what you meant was, ‘I lost my ancestral home and whoever is living in it now won’t forward my letters to me’?” Kíli asked, and whined when Fíli smacked him upside the head with a hissed, “Kee!”

Bilbo let out a weak, humorless, laugh and nodded. “Oh, something like that, yes,” he answered as he tightened his grip on his cane before he settled into the chair closest to the fireplace.

Elrohir opened his mouth, only to have Elladan clap his hand over his twin’s mouth. “Don’t,” he warned.

This warning was followed by Elladan ripping his hand away from Elrohir with a strangled sound of disgust, while Elrohir just looked smug. “Elflings, the pair of you,” Bilbo muttered and started slightly when Fíli suddenly settled in his vision.

“What did you mean, ‘something like that’?” Fíli asked and Kíli perked up at that, even as Bilbo sighed softly.

“Tomorrow. Come along, let me show you where you’ll be sleeping. Elladan and Elrohir, you have the same room as last time, same with you Bofur. Fíli and Kíli, with me,” Bilbo responded, even as he worked on getting out of the chair until Fíli, already up and steady, held his arm out for Bilbo, who obviously was having difficulties even getting out of his chair.

Distantly, Kíli wondered if there were nights where Bilbo, alone, was stuck in that chair till morning, when Frodo went running for someone else to help Bilbo up, because he didn’t doubt this had happened before.

Happened often enough that Bilbo didn’t even twitch at accepting aid.

Bilbo, he had learned in Lake-Town, did not think himself _worthy_ of help, of care. For whatever reason, Bilbo was _always_ surprised when they helped him while sick, took care of him while sick, to the point where Kíli was sure the only reason Thorin hadn’t marched back to the Shire to bludgeon Hobbits to death was because they were at the foot of Erebor.

And probably because Balin reminded him that it was now or never. They would never be able to make the trek a second time, and could not stay camped out at the foot of the mountain for a year.

They couldn’t even guarantee that Durin’s Day would be perfectly aligned as such again.

But Bilbo is accepting help _now_ and that tells Kíli more about Bilbo’s life now than anything else.

Not the different hill-home, not the fact he wears black while his nephew does not, nor the oaken cane he leans so heavily on.

Bilbo accepts help without any stammers about how he can handle it.

And that scares Kíli a bit.

“I thought you were an only child Mister Boggins,” Kíli stated, even as Fíli heaved a great sigh over that as he gathered their bag, while Bilbo chuckled.

“I was, and still am. Frodo is more of a second cousin or something of the sort, but he’s always called me Uncle Bilbo as his mother considered me the eldest brother of her Family,” Bilbo explained, even as he lead the way to a room nestled out of the way, on the east side of the hill-home.

“Thank you Bilbo,” Fíli stated as he headed inside while Kíli hesitated.

“You _will_ tell us tomorrow, won’t you?” he asked.

“Kíli, I promise to answer your questions as best I can. Tomorrow. For now, we are all tired, and tomorrow is probably going to be longer than today,” Bilbo answered and Kíli nodded before he headed into the room, hesitantly shutting the door after them as quiet ‘good night’s were exchanged.

As Kíli prepared for bed, he couldn’t help but wonder what Bilbo would answer fully and what he would deflect on.

“Well, we’ll just have to wait and see, I guess,” he muttered as he flopped back into the bed next to Fíli, his prosthetic leaning against the wall next to the headboard.

* * *

Bilbo wished he could say he was surprised to find Elrohir and Elladan waiting for him outside of his bedroom, even as he wished they weren’t there.

His leg was _throbbing_ and he wanted to just fall into bed without even getting changed into nightclothes.

The appearance of the Elf twins, however, said that that would not be happening. “Not telling the Dwarves about your kin declaring you dead so they could get your home and things?” Elladan asked as Bilbo opened the door to his room.

“That is the plan. Vengeful Dwarves in the Shire would not be a good thing and I have no desire for vengeance. It is too tiring and draining, and soaks your soul in a vicious acid that eats away at it till you can’t focus on anything else,” Bilbo responded and Elrohir huffed.

“Just because we like to slaughter Orcs and Goblins and wish them eradicated from existence, doesn’t mean we are obsessed with vengeance,” Elrohir protested.

“Because nothing about that sentence points in that direction, of course,” Bilbo retorted sarcastically, even as he walked into his room, waving for them to follow.

He had a screen up in the corner for a reason.

“I still think they should know,” Elladan stated.

“When I know they won’t go through the Shire killing all my kin, I’ll be sure to explain everything,” Bilbo stated as he settled behind the screen to get changed into his nightclothes.

“How did you know we were coming?” Elrohir asked.

Bilbo sighed and, mentally, weighed dancing around the truth to just the pure truth before he settled on just telling them.

“Family connections. I could tell you were returning and the lessening of pain from the Unrequited told me Dwarves were with you, though how many I did not know,” Bilbo explained as he finally finished getting changed before he hobbled out from behind the screen.

“Now, out of my bedroom and to yours! I would like to be coherent tomorrow,” Bilbo stated as they laughed a bit before they ducked out.

“Night Bilbo,” they responded and shut the door behind them.

Bilbo sighed in relief and sunk, gratefully, into the bed.

His leg was worse than it was in the hallway and it took a great deal of effort and energy to get _under_ the covers instead of just on top of them.

Yes, tomorrow was going to be a long, _long_ day.


	25. Morning Brings Rain

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What?
> 
> No.
> 
> Second chapter? What second chapter?
> 
> Oh, _this_ second chapter!
> 
> No, no, this isn't a second chapter.
> 
> This is the second half the previous chapter.
> 
> (Seriously though, still on hiatus. This did not happen, technically. I will be off hiatus on July 2nd with Surprise Update.)

The pattering of rain against the window and the sharp, agonizing, throb that went from his left leg to splinter up his spine to the base of his skull were what woke Bilbo the next morning, and it was only through a great force of will that kept Bilbo from outright screaming in agony.

Instead, he trembled and bit his lip hard enough to split it before he fell against his pillows, sinking into the warmth, but finding no comfort through his agony.

After a few gasping breaths, he managed to sit up. Once sitting, he dabbed his split lip with his handkerchief until it stopped and, hopefully, did not stand out, and then he pulled the spare clothes he kept in the side cabinet next to his bed just in case for these days.

Only then did he get dressed and carefully gripped his cane before he began to limp out of the room, gripping the walls as he went, moving slowly to the kitchen.

“Good morning,” an unfamiliar voice greeted and Bilbo nodded briefly before the fact he _did not know the voice_ managed to get through his brain.

He turned suddenly, stepping back onto his left leg on instinct, only to have it crumple from under him with a strangled cry of pain, the Elf at the kitchen table wincing and moving quickly to Bilbo’s side.

“I am sorry for that. I hadn’t realized…I hadn’t seen, and I’m sorry,” the strange Elf stated as he helped Bilbo to sit up, one hand shifting to hover over Bilbo’s left shankbone.

Bilbo stared at the strange Elf, whose golden hair seemed to glow with a light of its own that then spread through his tanned skin, even as Bilbo answered, “It’s all right.”

The strange Elf smiled a bit. “No, it isn’t, but thank you for forgiving me,” he responded, even as he shifted so that he could look closer at Bilbo’s left shankbone.

Bilbo’s question of ‘what are you doing in my smial?’ was interrupted before he even got the first syllable out by a shrill shout, followed by Frodo’s broom coming down on the strange Elf’s head.

The Elf immediately retreated from Bilbo and the older Hobbit resisted the urge to groan when he saw Frodo chased down the Elf with his broom, swinging it with the ease of practice.

Each swing either had the bristles scratch at the Elf, who was still retreating from Frodo, who was chasing him towards the front door of the smial, or it was actually making contact with the Elf.

Frodo probably would have managed to drive the stranger out, if it hadn’t been for Elrohir suddenly stepping in, while laughing.

He was still laughing, even as Frodo fought Elrohir’s grip as Elladan came through the front door, soaked from the rain. “Frodo, at ease, that’s just Glorfindel!” Elrohir stated, Frodo still stretching out with the broom to try and smack ‘Glorfindel’ while Elladan simply asked, “How did you even get in here? Everything is smaller than you!”

Frodo stopped swinging his broom at the Twins words, but he was obviously glowering at Glorfindel. “Can’t I just come to visit a friend of yours for an introduction you have failed to give?” he inquired and Elrohir cackled.

“That did not answer the question Glorfindel,” Elladan stated and Glorfindel smiled.

“You sound like your father,” Glorfindel stated, even as Bilbo heard the sound of metal on wood.

“Mister Boggins, why…who is that?” Kíli asked, while Fíli worked on helping Bilbo into a chair.

“Apparently his name is Glorfindel. As to why, and how, he got into my smial, I do not know. I am hoping after Elrohir finishes cackling at him, and Frodo stops pointing his broom at him, and Elladan stops questioning him, we will get the answers to both those questions,” Bilbo stated, his voice strained and weary already as Bofur walked in.

He didn’t even pause, just walked straight to the kettle, filled it, and began to work on getting everything set up for Bilbo’s morning tea. “These are hardly _Dwarven_ locks Elladan! How do you think I got in?” Glorfindel responded eventually, after Frodo had settled on the chair next to Bilbo.

Elrohir, upon hearing that, laughed and left to go take care of the horses and ponies, leaving Fíli, Kíli, and Bofur to make breakfast.

This was due to the fact that Elladan was cornering Glorfindel about breaking and entering, while Bilbo himself was forced to stay in his chair by Frodo.

Bilbo just hoped his kitchen would survive the turmoil it was about to be put through.

* * *

Bilbo had been put to bed after First Breakfast and Glorfindel was left to face a smial full of Bilbo’s Family.

Not every member, no, but enough of them to make Glorfindel _almost_ regret breaking into Bilbo’s smial. “It was _pouring_ ,” Glorfindel stated and Elrohir laughed again.

Glorfindel was sure that, if Frodo was still here, the little faunt would be leveling a very impressive glare, for a Hobbit, at him.

“Glorfindel, you broke into our friend’s _home_ ,” Elladan stressed and Glorfindel tsked at him.

“Don’t lie to me,” Glorfindel stated.

“I didn’t lie,” Elladan retorted and Glorfindel shook his head.

“This is where he lives, _this_ is not his home. His home is out there,” Glorfinel responded, grinning humorlessly as he waved at the eastern window.

He almost laughed at the way Elrohir’s face turned serious and Bofur looked away, but it wouldn’t have been a nice laugh, and it would have scared the two baby Dwarves who were standing there, looking confused.

“Well, Bag-End was taken from him,” Fíli admitted and Glorfindel didn’t say anything.

Instead he got up with a bounce, somehow didn’t smack his head on the ceiling, and was already darting out with a passing call of, “I think I should get to know Bilbo better, don’t you?”

He barely contained his laughter as what he said caught up in their brains but by then it was too late.

Glorfindel had already slipped into Bilbo’s bedroom to face the wrath of a faunt.

Couldn’t be worse than the Balrog.


	26. Stormy Thoughts for a Stormy Day

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Footwarmers are "ye olde time" way of saying "hot water bottles", except they weren't made of rubber and were not considered "bottles". Instead they were made of stone, or glass, or earthenware.
> 
> Bedwarmers are what you saw the maid put under the bed for Elizabeth in the first Pirates movie.
> 
> On to fun notes.
> 
> One of the things I do when I am writing something is use soundscapes to help me write. It helps get me into a setting or a feeling.
> 
> In this case, I actually built my own. It is surprisingly relaxing.
> 
> http://naturesoundsfor.me/Ashen-Ch-26
> 
> If you can't access, I will be attempting to load it onto my Tumblr for people to hear.
> 
> On that note...
> 
> Some of my stories are going to be getting their own personal blogs attached to my main blog on Tumblr.
> 
> Mommy Dori series is one.
> 
> The rest are going to be created as they go, but Ashen Pheonix, Life Is What You Make of It, and Art of Language are probably the others.
> 
> You can argue for one to go up this weekend.

Frodo didn't even twitch when the door shut a little too fast, a little too loud and instead buried his head more against his uncle's chest so the older Hobbit's heartbeat kept counterpoint to the torential downpour that pattered against the window. "Young Master Frodo, was it?" a voice, Glorfindel's unless Frodo was mistaken, questioned and Frodo clutched tighter to his uncle's shirt as he nodded, the shifting of cloth under his ear nearly masking the soothing heartbeat.

His ear that was not pressed against his uncle's chest twitched as Glorfindel began to make his way across the room to the bed and Frodo shifted so he could attempt to hide without lifting his head from Uncle's chest, only to whimper when a rumble of thunder joined the sounds of the rain outside.

"Sounds like quite a storm out there," Glorfindel murmurred and Frodo nodded, hesitantly, as he closed his eyes.

There was silence, for a time, before Glorfindel spoke again. "Do you mind if I start up a fire within the fireplace? This room feels a bit chilled."

Frodo shook his head and he heard Glorfindel moving once more. There was a slight shuffling and then the drag of metal across stone, which caused Frodo to wince. "Do you have a bedwarmer?" Glorfindel asked.

"A what?"

"It is a special type of metal containor on a long wooden handle. Do you have one?" Glorfindel explained softly and Frodo, reluctantly, lifted his head to glare at the Elf.

"Why do you want to know?" he questioned.

"I am just trying to make ammends Young Master Frodo," Glorfindel answered and Frodo huffed before he pointed to the low flat trunk against the wall near the fireplace.

"Uncle Bilbo keeps it there, but he never uses it for himself," Frodo explained and soon settled back down to cuddle against Uncle Bilbo, ignoring the Elf.

There were sounds of Glorfindel retrieving the bedwarmer, followed by the soft scrape of metal against stone and then there was the sound of...something Frodo didn't recognize. He frowned and twisted around again to find Glorfindel was filling the bedwarmer with glowing embers.

The faunt glared at Glorfindel before he cuddled back against Uncle Bilbo, focusing on the heartbeat under his ear and the rain outside. The distant rumbles of thunder were equally soothing and, were it not for the sound of Glorfindel returning to the bed, Frodo was sure he would have begun dozing.

As it was, the Elf that had broken into his uncle's smial was walking closer and Frodo decided to ignore him when he felt the bed being shifted on the right side.

He opened his eyes and glared at Glorfindel as the Elf slid the bedwarmer across so that it would go under Uncle Bilbo's bad leg. "It isn't going to hurt and it might help. Stop being so suspicious little Hobbit. It does not suit one so young," Glorfindel stated and Frodo's eyes narrowed further.

"Everyone who has ever met my uncle has harmed him. Pardon me if I treat you with suspicion when I already know you have done so," Frodo retorted and shifted so he could partially hide while listening to his uncle's steady heartbeat under his ear.

There was a soft inhale, as Glorfindel was about to say something, before he sighed. There was then more movement and the sounds of a fire being started.

Frodo sighed over that and soon the sound of a fire mixed with the rest of the sounds. “Does your uncle have a foot warmer?” Glorfindel inquired.

“Two, in the kitchen. Why?” Frodo answered.

“I’m trying to help little one, not hurt,” Glorfindel stated, but Frodo ignored him as Glorfindel left, quickly.

There was some loud voices and then Glorfindel was back, rather quickly and panting a little hard.

“You don’t make friends easily do you?” Frodo asked as Glorfindel drifted to sit in front of the fire on the thick rug.

“Oh, I make friends easily enough. It is in keeping them that I find some trouble,” Glorfindel answered easily, and Frodo couldn’t have stopped the snort of amusement if he tried.

As it was, some part of him didn’t even want to.

The rest was just irritated at himself for doing that and so he buried himself against his uncle before he closed his eyes against Glorfindel and tried to pretend the Elf didn’t exist.

* * *

Glorfindel watched Frodo cuddle with his uncle, sure that he was showing every year of his long, _long_ , too long, life, but did nothing to contain it under his skin.

Bilbo was sleeping due to the syrup and Frodo was doing his best to ignore the strange Elf, and the rest were outside the room, specifically in the kitchen prepping the two stone footwarmers, or braving the storm to make sure the horses and ponies were doing all right.

Glorfindel was just thankful Bilbo had settled in the middle of the bed, though from the way Frodo was curled up against to Bilbo, it might have been through habit over what was comfortable for the Hobbit.

He sighed softly at that and looked over at the fire.

He would start with the heat. After that, he would see if Bilbo would be receptive to anything else Glorfindel could help with.

Long years of needing to hide the fact he was an Elf, that he was anyone of importance, had led to him learning ‘practical’ healing. Injuries such as the one Bilbo had suffered from was one of the few Glorfindel knew he could help with and he wouldn’t even need to use his magic to help.

He would, but he didn’t need to.

And the faster he taught the rest how to help Bilbo’s ease of living, the faster Glorfindel’s healer nature would feel appeased.

As it was, it screamed at him to do something to _help_ , not just sit around and wait.

But Glorfindel had no choice.

He knew that if he left the bedroom again, he would not be allowed back in.

And that wasn’t something Glorfindel was willing to risk.


	27. Warmth and Rain

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, this took longer than expected.
> 
> I took a mini-break to type up my own work.
> 
> Also, I wanted to write eight different things at once.
> 
> Silly fanfics.
> 
> (Sorry for taking so long on this. It should've been up days ago.)

Bilbo blinked a few times as he came to, heart still racing from the nightmare of seeing all he loved ripped to shreds on a bloody battlefield that they should not be in, and his breathing was heavy and there was a weight on his chest.

A weight on his chest that was quite familiar and Bilbo blinked slowly until Frodo's frowning face came into view. He was leaning on Bilbo's chest and Bilbo let out a shakey sound that was a bastarized cross between a laugh and a keening cry, both of relief before he tugged Frodo down into a tight hug. He buried his nose into Frodo's hair, shaking with supressed sobs as Frodo nuzzled closer in his tight hug.

He gasped for air, trying to calm his racing heart, when he heard the Elf from the morning called, "Master Baggins, are you all right?"

Bilbo looked up, shivering and shaking while the Elf, Glorfindel, looked on cautiously.

It was then that it registered that his leg felt...nice.

Warm with only the faintest touch of pain, and he sat up slightly, still clutching to Frodo, surprised when Glorfindel moved to help him sit up. He shifted the pillows while holding Bilbo up in a seated position and then helped him relax back.

Bilbo never had to let go of Frodo the entire time he was being shifted and Glorfindel smiled. “How is your leg feeling?” he asked and Bilbo felt Frodo huff against his shoulder before burying himself further into Bilbo’s arms.

“Very well,” Bilbo answered and Glorfindel smiled at that.

“Still in pain?” he asked as he stepped up to the bed, Frodo squirming until he twisted around in Bilbo’s grip to look in Glorfindel’s direction.

Bilbo nodded slowly and Glorfindel sighed softly before he rubbed at his mouth. “May I try something?” he inquired and Bilbo, hesitantly, nodded.

Glorfindel smiled and rested his hand above the blanket, considering for a moment, before he carefully pulled the covers back from Bilbo’s leg, revealing that Bilbo’s leg was bracketed by his earthenware foot warmers and his leg was wrapped to keep his leg from burning.

There were also flat-bottomed spheres resting on the length of his leg, but light enough not to cause any additional pain, or possibly were relieving it. He knew sore muscles could be relieved through the use of warm rocks and massages. “Will it hurt him?” Frodo demanded sharply, twisting his hands tighter into Bilbo’s shirt.

“For a moment, at the beginning. It shouldn’t in the long run, but if the pain doesn’t ease up, tell me please Master Baggins,” Glorfindel stated.

“Bilbo, please, Master Glorfindel,” Bilbo responded softly, the last dregs of the tea still clinging to him now that he had awoken from his nightmare, never releasing Frodo as Glorfindel smiled at him.

“Just Glorfindel, please,” the Elf responded and he looked over Bilbo’s leg before he reached down with his fingertips between the towel covered spheres, and began to massage his leg.

Bilbo’s first reaction was to jerk away, gripping Frodo in what had to be a painfully tight grip, but Glorfindel shushed him gently, shifting one hand to grip just above his left knee to hold the leg to the bed as he replaced the flat-bottomed spheres.

And then he returned to the massage.

Bilbo grit his teeth against the pain and forced his arms to loosen around Frodo, even as he slammed his head back in agony. The collision against the back of his head made his eyes ache and tears leaked out from the corner of his eyes as the pain began to overwhelm him.

He shook his head rapidly, the pain shooting up his spine and echoing the agony that raced up his leg and suddenly it eased.

He let out a low sound of relief, feeling boneless as the pain began to fade until it was barely even registering.

Glorfindel continued with the circling massage down Bilbo’s leg, keeping one hand above Bilbo’s knee to keep his leg still.

This turned out to be a good thing when Glorfindel brushed places that had his leg tensing and trying to pull away, but eventually the pain stopped spiking up and Glorfindel smiled. “This should help, but you’ll have to stay in bed. I don’t think we can keep the warmth around your leg otherwise, but you should be at least coherent for the rest of the day. No syrup, just stuck in bed. And using the bedwarmer from now on would be best,” he explained softly and Bilbo nodded slightly while Frodo nuzzled against Bilbo’s shoulder.

“I think we should have lunch,” Bilbo murmured, and Glorfindel nodded before he carefully settled the quilts back over Bilbo’s leg.

“That sounds like a good idea,” Glorfindel answered and opened the door, deftly catching Kíli as he stumbled in, metal leg skidding slightly against the wood as he did so.

“Kíli, I am sure, will keep you company! Oh Elladan, Elrohir, your Hobbit friend is awake! Also, Frodo has been mean to me! Growling and snarling like a wolf pup!” Glorfindel shouted as he slipped out, shutting the door firmly behind him while Kíli made his way over to the right side of the bed, as the left was taken by Frodo.

Kíli sat on the side of the bed and glanced at Bilbo.

Bilbo, still slightly groggy, merely smiled and pat the bed. Kíli grinned and removed his prosthetic before he settled in next to Bilbo, wriggling the best he could until his forehead was pressed against Bilbo’s collarbone. He then shifted and curled up so Bilbo’s arm wouldn’t be pinned, but instead allowed to curl around Kíli until he could massage the young Dwarf’s neck, carefully.

Kíli grumbled happily and let out a long sigh before slumping bonelessly against Bilbo. “Mister Boggins?” he questioned softly and Frodo humphed slightly at the slaughtering of the Baggins name.

“Yes Kíli?” Bilbo responded.

“I missed you,” he whispered softly as he buried himself further into Bilbo’s loose embrace.

“Missed you too Kíli. Do you happen to know if I should be worried about my kitchen or is it as I left it?” Bilbo asked, drawing Kíli into the present instead of the past.

“Cleaner,” Kíli responded and Bilbo snorted.

“You set my stove on fire, didn’t you?” Bilbo asked and Frodo gasped, head snapping up at the horror of the idea that the stove could have caught on fire.

“No, not the stove. You may be down a towel however,” Kíli answered and Bilbo laughed even as Frodo launched himself across Bilbo’s torso to jump on Kíli to get vengeance for the unknown towel.

The leg remained out of the danger zone as Kíli easily rolled with the tackle and off the side of the bed with a thump.

That was how Fíli and Elrohir found them a few moments later, Bilbo laughing through the haze the syrup left him in while Frodo cried for vengeance as he tussled with Kíli on the floor.

It was, all in all, a beautiful start to an afternoon.

* * *

In Bree, seven Dwarves rode into town, cloaked against the rains.

The leader moved, as if to push ahead, when one, heavier looking than the leader, grabbed his shoulder and shook a hooded head.

The snarl of Khuzdhul was enough to have the Men (and any Hobbits nearby) give the company of Dwarves a _very_ wide berth.


	28. A Bridge Between the Ominous and the Serious

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In this bridge from ominous to serious, we get adorableness and possibly some light angst.
> 
> I am unsure at this point.

Frodo and Kíli had quickly abandoned their play at the entrance of Fíli and Elrohir with lunch, Frodo quickly abandoning Kíli while said Dwarf struggled slightly to get up.

Fíli sighed at that and placed the over the lap tray over Bilbo’s lap before he went to go help Kíli up. He laughed as Kíli crashed into his chest and the only thing that prevented Fíli from tossing Kíli onto the bed was the fact Bilbo already had his and Frodo’s lunch on the tray. “Come on little brother. Lunch has finally been made without your interference!” Fíli teased and Kíli pouted as he settled on the bed, already shifting to cuddle against Bilbo’s side, even as Frodo glared at the Dwarf.

Right before the little faunt stole a sautéed mushroom right off of Bilbo’s plate.

“You sneak,” Bilbo stated before he pressed a kiss to Frodo’s curls and did not hesitate to smack Kíli’s hand when he tried to do the same.

He pouted and cuddled his hand close. “Why does he get to steal one and not me?” Kíli whined and Bilbo merely snorted at him, even as Elrohir shoved Kíli, gently, and placed a similar tray over Kíli’s lap.

“That’s why you impatient Dwarf. By the way, Bilbo, did you know there was a leak in the back cellar? The dirt floored one? There’s a bit of a muddy lake back there now,” Elrohir stated and Bilbo sighed, pinching his nose.

“Yes, actually. I was hoping to get it fixed but…well, never got around to it, I guess,” he answered and Elrohir nodded.

“Bofur said he could fix it with some help. We’re, meaning Elrohir and Elladan and me agreeing, thinking of sending Glorfindel with him, to keep him out of trouble,” Fíli stated.

“Good luck,” Bilbo answered simply and didn’t hesitate to smack Kíli’s hand again when the Dwarf tried to steal a piece of carrot instead.

“Oww!” Kíli whined and Fíli laughed at his misfortune, even as Frodo leaned over Bilbo’s back to steal two mushrooms from Kíli’s plate.

The cry for vengeance came up from Kíli, to which Bilbo took up Kíli’s ignored fork, speared some food on it, along with Frodo’s, and did not hesitate to pop both forks into their mouths, abruptly stopping the Battle of the Mushrooms.

(That took place three minutes later _off_ Bilbo’s bed. The resulting bath Kíli tromped off to Frodo with just had Bilbo wondering how Kíli had so thoroughly ensnared Frodo’s friendship before the older Hobbit just decided that it was Kíli and there was nothing else to it.)

* * *

After lunch, Bilbo refused to be kept to his bedroom and Elladan and Elrohir caved under Bilbo's look, and that was how Bilbo ended up on the couch in the living room, the rain pattering at the window. "How long will you two be staying?" he inquired as Elrohir tugged a quilt over Bilbo's feet, despite the look Bilbo gave him.

"Oh, just for a while. Till we get some things settled. Maybe convince you to come to Rivendell with us," Elrohir answered simply, giving Bilbo a smile, even as Glorfindel resettled all the warming implements around, and on, Bilbo's leg to help the pain lessen, which was a relief.

"I couldn't do that," Bilbo answered softly and watched as Kíli hopped by the doorway, obviously well adapted to moving about on one leg, while Fíli, who was carrying a tray, snorted, interrupting Elrohir’s question.

"He's trying to out-hop your nephew," Fíli explained when Bilbo raised an eyebrow.

Bilbo was about to respond when there was a shriek, followed by a thump. Fíli did not hesitate to put the tray down before he ran out of the den, while Elrohir frowned at the doorway. Bilbo began to sit up, a frown pulling at his face, when laughter could suddenly be heard. "Oh, shut up Fíli," Kíli's voice retorted and Bilbo fell back with a snort.

"Elrohir, could you please get Kíli's prosthetic from my room? I think he took it off to keep the damage to my blankets at a minimum," Bilbo questioned softly.

“Of course. After I go and see what has Fíli laughing so hard,” Elrohir answered as he walked over to the doorway.

His own snort of amusement, followed by him turning to beam at Bilbo had the older Hobbit’s curiosity _burning_ and Elrohir smiled. “Frodo tackled Kíli and is now sitting on his chest. Also, there is muddy water everywhere, which I suspect has come from Frodo,” Elrohir explained and Bilbo frowned, even as he sat up, bracing himself on his arms.

“Frodo Antirrhinum Baggins, what have I told you about tracking mud into the smial?” Bilbo shouted and there was a surprised squeak and then there was a quick movement and Bilbo groaned as he flopped back.

“I sounded like my father. Or my mother. They’ve both shouted at me for tracking mud into the smial,” Bilbo muttered as he began to shift, as if to get up, when Elrohir practically threw himself across the room, the soft sounds of Kíli hopping carrying even as Elrohir practically threw himself on Bilbo, rattling the tray slightly.

“No! You are not allowed to move! You promised, remember?” he demanded and Bilbo sighed before he nodded in agreement.

“We’ll take care of the mud, don’t whoa!” Kíli began to reassure when he was cut off by his shout.

The shout was followed by a thump and a groan. “Muddy water is slippery,” he commented and Bilbo bit back his laugh even as Elrohir stared in the direction of Kíli’s voice.

He settled further into the sofa and called, “Frodo, you better be getting ready to clean up the front hall! Kíli, Fíli, go catch my heir-son please. He’s going to get sick if he keeps running around in muddy clothes. And you, sir Elf, have a prosthetic to go fetch,” Bilbo prompted and Elrohir saluted before he stood and left quickly, the sounds of Kíli being helped up by his brother, followed by Fíli’s call of, “Yes Master Baggins!,” echoed through the smial.

And Bilbo smiled, even as he settled onto the sofa more, before he winced and gripped his chest, over his heart.

The throb was far more piercing then he had expected, and he blinked in surprise when a cool hand rested against his forehead. “You should explain to them. They are here and it is not fair for them to cause pain when it can be alleviated,” Glorfindel stated and Bilbo sighed, shakily, even as he slumped against the pillows.

“Later. Besides, I said I would answer questions today,” Bilbo murmured.

“If they remember to ask them, of course,” Glorfindel responded with a smile.

Bilbo let out a small laugh and nodded. “If they remember to ask,” he agreed and Glorfindel leaned back against the sofa, reclining his head to rest it on Bilbo’s belly, just below the ribcage.

“How did you escape Bofur and Elladan?” Bilbo questioned.

“Less escaped, more I got kicked out of the repair work,” he answered.

“You’re supposed to get the straw, aren’t you?”

“It’s _raining_ Bilbo. No, raining is an understatement. It is _pouring_. I don’t want to walk out into the downpour without knowing how to keep the straw dry so it can be used to turn your floor back into a floor. Why is that dirt anyway?” Glorfindel answered and Bilbo idly tugged Glorfindel’s hair free so it was not pinned beneath Glorfindel’s head.

“There is a spare rain-cloak at the back of the smial. Under said spare cloak is a rather large, metal, basket, as it were. It has a cover as well. Put the clean straw into that, and keep it under the cloak that you should wear. Leave your muddy boots at the door,” Bilbo answered and Glorfindel huffed.

“You are supposed to defend me and keep me inside. I’m your healer, remember?” Glorfindel retorted.

“I shall be fine with your brief absence. Go,” Bilbo retorted and Glorfindel huffed even as he stood to do as bade.

Bilbo shook his head and settled back, smiling when he heard the sounds of Frodo shouting at Kíli for catching him.

Muddy water everywhere and more to come.

Bilbo smiled and settled further into the sofa.

For all he yelled about mud in his carpets, he was glad for the scent of outside to be spreading through the smial.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bonus points for anyone figuring out where I got Frodo's middle name from.
> 
> Bonus points means...absolutely nothing. I don't keep track of points.
> 
> That is too much work.


	29. Questions and Realizations

It was after supper when Kíli seemed to remember that he had questions he wanted to ask. “So…about the losing the ancestral home thing,” he began and Bilbo immediately covered his face with his hand, wondering if Glorfindel had anything to do with them remembering to ask.

“Yes?” Bilbo answered softly.

“What happened?” Kíli asked and Bilbo leaned back in his chair, a blanket tucked over his lap.

“I was declared dead, one year exactly after I left. I wasn’t here to refute it. I didn’t come back to the Shire till the following Spring, give or take. Elladan and Elrohir, even Legolas, would be much better at telling you exactly when I returned,” Bilbo answered softly and Frodo clambered, carefully onto Bilbo’s lap.

He smiled at his heir-son and ran a hand through Frodo’s curls, even as Frodo cuddled against Bilbo’s chest. “Mean old Lobelia did it. She’s always wanted Bag-End and now she has it,” Frodo stated, even as Bilbo sighed and ran his fingers through Frodo’s hair, shushing him gently, even as the sound of metal scraping against wood could be heard.

“Kíli, where are you going?” Bilbo asked softly.

“She took your home!” Kíli snapped.

“And I spent half a year, give or take, helping my _Family_ regain their home and I refused to let my return to the Shire be marred with the same so sit down Kíli son of Dís!” Bilbo responded firmly, sitting up as he held Frodo close.

There was a shift and Frodo buried his face into Bilbo’s collarbone, even as Bilbo slumped back against the chair, covering his eyes with his hand. He didn’t look over at Kíli, even as he heard the soft sound of metal against the wood, and Bilbo looked up when he felt someone rest on the arm of his chair.

His eyes met Kíli’s, who was kneeling next to the chair and Bilbo didn’t hesitate to reach forward and run his fingers through Kíli’s hair. “You silly Dwarf,” Bilbo murmured and began to work on getting the tangles out of the brunette locks.

“Why do you keep enunciating that? Frodo does too,” Kíli asked softly.

“Because…it is. Kin can be Family, but Family isn’t always kin. It is a bond, deep and unyielding, reaffirmed through the exchange of ‘borrowed’ items to insure future return. Exchange is tradition, but it is not needed to reaffirm that bond upon meeting. It is usually done to keep giving reasons to see each other. Anything can be used. A carving knife, a handkerchief…a book,” Bilbo explained, focusing on Kíli and not on the way Bofur was putting it together.

Bilbo had avoided explaining and now he had to. “Like with me?” Bofur asked and Bilbo nodded.

“Exchange of gifts, of borrows. That starts the bond. Give one to someone, to borrow. They give an item back. Completes the bond,” Bilbo explained and Kíli had his thinking face on, all furrowed brows and scrunched nose.

“Bilbo…you let me borrow feathers for fletching. And Fíli borrowed something from you too. After Beorn’s,” Kíli stated.

“And Ori borrowed a quill, Dori borrowed some buttons, Nori borrowed one of my spare buckles. Glóin borrowed a blank journal of mine, that survived, when he needed it to measure expenses, Óin borrowed some thread, Bifur borrowed a block of wood I was given by Beorn, Bombur some spices, Bofur let me borrow the handkerchief and I let him borrow a book, Dwalin borrowed some leather I had spare of, Balin some handkerchiefs I had made from what could be spared of my otherwise destroyed shirt. And Fíli borrowed some additional leather strips I had. They were never returned, or gifts given in exchange, so…and then everything with Thorin happened and I was left to return to the Shire, leaving the majority of my Family behind, which was not an easy thing to do,” Bilbo answered softly.

Kíli stared up at him, even as Frodo shifted so he could carefully pull Bilbo’s necklace out. “You’re supposed to give gifts back, so it doesn’t hurt,” Frodo explained and Bilbo didn’t bother to try and keep Frodo quiet.

“So…what did you give Uncle?” Fíli questioned softly and Bilbo shifted in his chair, wondering how he could get away with not answering.

“Fíli, Kíli, I think it is time for supper. Come help me?” Bofur asked suddenly, even as he stood, but Bilbo could see Kíli getting it.

He then pulled something out of his pocket and pressed it into Bilbo’s palm before curling his fingers over it. Bilbo felt something ease in his chest and Kíli smiled. “Just a borrow, yeah?” Kíli stated before he carefully levered himself up and limped off into the kitchen.

Bilbo sighed and opened his hand to find a flat piece of metal, as if it was supposed to be attached to something or sewn to something, in his palm.

But Bilbo recognized it instantly as the Crest of the Line of Durin and he closed his hand around it tightly and pressed his lips to his fist as Frodo buried himself further into Bilbo’s embrace.

Of course Kíli would notice.

Kíli had a habit of noticing things that most others were blind to. “Uncle?” Frodo whispered and Bilbo just shifted to press a kiss to Frodo’s hair before he stared out the window, eyes searching the rain filled dusk for someone that was not there.

Frodo immediately settled further against Bilbo and when Bofur brought out dinner, Bilbo found he had no appetite.

Most of his dinner went to Frodo and, when he said something about desiring to go to bed, he was both surprised, and not, when Fíli let Bilbo “borrow” a plain silver bead.

The pain eased more and then Glorfindel lifted Bilbo up to settle him into bed.

“Go to sleep Bilbo, for I feel that tomorrow is going to be long,” Glorfindel murmured and Bilbo wondered if his tea had been drugged, for he slipped into sleep far too easily for it to be entirely natural.

* * *

Thorin glowered at his mug of beer as those of his (reduced) Company that were not asleep in their rooms made merry with the residents of Bree that were in the inn. He drained his mug and stood to get another when Dwalin, gently, shoved him back down in his seat and placed another mug before him.

“I don’t want you wading through that group of Men near the bar,” Dwalin stated and he sat down heavily next to Thorin, who resisted the urge to growl at Dwalin for his protectiveness.

“And I asked. No one has seen a blond Dwarf, or a Dwarf in a funny hat _or_ a Dwarf without a beard, comparatively. If they came through here, they’ve greatly improved their ability to hide, since no one saw a one-legged Dwarf or even one with a metal prosthetic,” Dwalin continued and Thorin drained this new mug instantly.

“How is Nori making out?” Thorin asked and Dwalin huffed.

“He’ll be getting us run out of town if he keeps winning,” Dwalin retorted before he took up Thorin’s mugs and headed back up to the bar.

It was only then that Thorin realized Dwalin hadn’t had any and he sighed, rubbing his hand over his face, taking a deep breath.

Alcohol and his lack of emotional control while _sober_ were not a good combination and he knew it.

That wasn’t going to stop him from attempting to drink himself under the table, however, especially as he had no idea where his sister-sons were and Bilbo…

He needed to find Bilbo and see with his own eyes that his Hobbit, his Burglar, _his Bilbo_ was safe.

When Dwalin put another mug in front of him, Thorin didn’t hesitate to down it as quickly as the one before it, before he set it to the side. “It’ll be all right Thorin, you’ll see,” Dwalin stated and Thorin could only nod, even though he didn’t fully believe it.

After all, why would Bilbo be waiting for him after how he had treated his Hobbit?


	30. Three Days Time (Back and Forth Chapter)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I totally messed with geography.
> 
> And other things.
> 
> And just played around.
> 
> Also, this took a few days.
> 
> But it is 2,000+ words, so that should make up for it.

Thorin resisted the urge to snarl at his Company as they packed for their ride to the Shire. As it was it would take another few days to get there, especially through the rolling rainstorms that seemed to plague the Shire. "No wonder it is all so green, with all this rain," Óin grumbled as he settled on his pony's back, the sky already having pulled a curtain of rain through the world.

Thorin huffed and his pony tossed his head in retaliation to Thorin's own annoyance and his eyes narrowed as the last member of their Company, Nori, mounted up with surprising slowness.

Reassured that his Company was ready to move on, Thorin turned his pony to face the road to the Shire and immediately nudged his horse into a sprightly walk, the mud sloshing around his hooves.

He ignored the mutterings about the rain and instead focused forward, riding toward the Shire and Bilbo.

And, hopefully, to his nephews and a wayward toymaker-miner as well, for if they aren’t with Bilbo he does not know what he will do.

* * *

Bilbo woke that morning feeling his leg throbbing and he slowly got out of bed.

Or, he would have, if he did not have Frodo curled up on his chest, clutching tightly to Bilbo’s nightshirt.

He smiled and rubbed Frodo’s back before he pressed a kiss to Frodo’s head. He drew the faunt closer after that and shifted to curl around Frodo as much as he could without jostling his left leg. Frodo mumbled something and snuggled closer, dressed in his own night clothes and looking as if he had dropped off to sleep _with_ Bilbo instead of crawling in sometime during the night.

Bilbo sighed softly and found that lack of downpour was promising for his leg pains, which brought a smile to Bilbo’s face as he focused on what he should make for First Breakfast. There was the option of pancakes, along with the option of various sweet-treats that would work, especially with how Fíli and Kíli seemed bound and determined to worm their way back into his life.

Not that Bilbo was opposed to his Family returning to his life, of course, for no Hobbit worth their salt wished to be separated from their Family but what could Bilbo do?

He began to run a hand through Frodo’s hair and wondered if maybe he should just consider staying in bed, but with the clouded skies, he knew that the lack of pain would not last long.

He should get up and get Frodo up as well, but it is pleasant to not be in mind-numbing agony and so Bilbo settles in to nap for a while longer yet, just as the rain begins to patter lightly against the glass.

* * *

Two hours pass before Dwalin has to take the lead as Thorin gets them lost three times in the span of that time and that is enough to get him uncaring who leads, so long as they get there within the week.

Dori had been the best to find out the best travel, only to discover that, due to the rain that it could take anywhere from a week to two to get there, especially as with all the rain the Brandywine would have risen to make the ferry impossible to use, but the Bridge, the first at least, was also a dangerous choice during the Rain Season.

The second was a three day ride upriver and took them through the edge of the Bucklands (whatever that was), and there was a small toll that had to be paid due to the fact the bridge was only used when the river rose over the banks, meaning that it took a great deal of work to keep up _during_ the Rain Season.

The fact the Hobbits Dori had spoken to in Bree actually stressed the words told Thorin more about their journey _now_ than anything else. He wonders how bad the Quest would have gone had they started the quest during the heavy rains, something that had never reached the Blue Mountains.

“There is an outcropping of rock that some traders use. When we reach that, we’ll have to stop, or sleep in the rain,” Dori explained calmly, even as Ori could be heard muttering something about his pages.

Thorin has a feeling that Dori learned more about the trading routes _around_ the Shire than the trading routes _through_ the Shire in all his talks.

He ignores that, however, to focus on following Dwalin’s lead, especially as the rain is accompanied by a rumble of thunder overhead.

* * *

Bilbo is woken in time for second breakfast for pain like dragon fire to lick up his nerve endings and curl around the base of his skull.

Frodo has left some time ago it seems and Bilbo is thankful his nephew is away from here, when Bofur suddenly peeks in without so much as a knock and Bilbo is tempted to throw something at the miner/toymaker when he’s distracted by the agony that continues to bite up his spine.

“Bilbo, we’ve got Second Breakfast on the table. You good to get ready?” Bofur questioned gently and Bilbo nodded without hesitation, even if all he really wanted to do was lie there for a while.

Bofur nodded, hesitantly, and slipped back out.

A breath later, Bilbo was working on getting dressed and he limped slowly out of his room.

Today was going to be a mid-way day.

* * *

Thorin stared out into the rain from under the outcropping, the ponies under cover, if a fair distance from the company. He crossed his arms across his chest and pressed the heels of his hands against his ribcage.

“You goin’ to eat eventually Your Majesty?” Nori asked and Thorin didn’t even twitch at the disrespectful tone, though Dwalin did.

“Later,” Thorin answered shortly, eyes daring over the ponies to reflexively count them, before they went back to staring out at the dusk tinted curtain of rain.

The oncoming darkness was near impossible to pierce through, but his eyes darted still, even as Nori shifted next to him.

Thorin knew it was Nori because the sound was made obviously and Thorin glanced over at him before he looked back out into the storm. “The Shire isn’t going to go anywhere if you look away. And Bofur will take care of the idiots, so they’re with him, and they’re probably sitting nice in Bag-End, driving Bilbo mad with their energy while Bofur laughs at them,” Nori stated and Thorin glanced at Nori, who shrugged and got up.

“However, if you don’t eat now, _Dori_ will cook something for you later, and that is a torture I wouldn’t even put _Thranduil_ through,” Nori stated, ignoring Dori’s indignant shout over how he wasn’t that bad of a cook.

Thorin shook his head slightly, before he turned and marched back to the Company, Nori flipping a knife over his fingers as he stared at the curtain of rain.

* * *

“What are you three doing?” Bilbo questioned as he was settled onto his table by Glorfindel, Elladan, and Elrohir.

“Well, Fíli, Kíli, and I are all going to be measuring you for a proper leg brace to help you with your leg. But your leg needs to be fully stretched out and we need to make sure that the supports are in the right place. Elladan and Elrohir are just here to help make sure there is as little pain as possible throughout the whole process,” Glorfindel answered, even as the sounds of Bofur distracting Frodo carried through the smial.

Before Bilbo could protest, Fíli walked in with one of their packs. “Luckily, Kíli works with the smiths of Erebor, specifically within the healer sect. He was the one who brought up the hinged knee-joint brace,” Fíli stated as he began to remove everything from the bag.

“Where are you going to find the metal for this?” Bilbo asked as Elrohir left the room while Bilbo just stared at Fíli.

Fíli who was now leaving his eyesight and any attempt to move had Glorfindel stopping the movement, and Bilbo didn’t stop his sigh as Kíli clunked his way in.

Elrohir returned, carefully settling a pillow under Bilbo’s head. “We don’t even know the full brace will work. We’ll have to edit it slightly, since I don’t think you will appreciate it curling around your foot, but that’s what Glorfindel is here for,” Kíli explained, even as he began to carefully straighten Bilbo’s leg till it was pressed against a wooden block.

“You did not answer myaahhhhhhhh!” Bilbo began to retort, when pain rushed up his leg.

There was soothing words in Sindarin and a hand running through his hair and when he blinks, it is to stare up at Glorfindel, who smiles.

“See? But I think you are right about going around the feet. This is going to take many drafts,” Glorfindel answered and Bilbo sighed, even as he relaxed to the soft sounds of two Dwarrows and an Elf muttering over how to make a leg brace.

No one in the kitchen noticed when Frodo trotted in, eyes glassy with sleep and dressed in his night clothes to crawl up and cuddle against Bilbo’s chest, collapsing there as Bilbo began to run his fingers soothingly through Frodo’s hair.

It seemed the sleepwalking had returned.

* * *

It had taken three days through the driving rain to get to the high bridge.

Three days of being soaked to the bone and their ponies being soaked to the bone, had left all in an irritable mood. It didn’t get better when the, bearded, Hobbit that stood guard at the bridge refused to let them cross with the ponies.

“Look, it’ll take your weight and the weight of your things, but add an animal that weighs over twice your weight, with weapons? This won’t hold it! The Rain Season has been _hard_ this year, Master Dwarf! Look, we’ll take care of the ponies and when we can, get them to the other side and take them to the Green Dragon for you, but in the meantime? This bridge is the only way into the Shire proper and it is probably gonna get closed within the week if the rains keep up. As it is the Brandywine Ferry is gonna need to be _rebuilt_. Not doin’ it to be irritatin’, but I really don’t want a bunch of drowned Dwarves to join the drowned Hobbits that the Brandywine has taken. Hasn’t since…well, hasn’t for a time. People’ve been more cautious since and we aim to keep it that way. Now, we’ll watch the ponies for free, keep ‘em separate from our own, and bring ‘em to you at the Green Dragon, if yer willin’ to wait. If not, we’ll buy them at a fair price, let you across, you swing up to the Tookborough to buy new ponies, and be on your way to the Blue Mountains,” the Hobbit explained, standing tall and almost Dwarvishly proud against someone who was towering over him by at least two feet, possibly a little less.

Thorin sighed and nodded. “We understand, Master Hobbit. We apologize if we seemed…rude,” Thorin explained and the Hobbit gave a sharp nod, before whistling.

As Hobbits came to help them, Thorin frowned a bit and focused on the Hobbit before him. “Have you happened to see a blond Dwarf or a Dwarf with one leg around?” he inquired.

The Hobbit huffed a bit in thought and then shook his head. “Can’t say that I have, but I just got back from Bree in time to help out here, ya see, so really I can’t be too sure,” the Hobbit answered.

“A Dwarf named Bofur?” he inquired and immediately the Hobbit nodded.

“Aye, he’s back. Off visitin’ Master Baggins. I know because all the kids from Hobbiton to here are whispering about it, even if he hasn’t been down much from Master Baggins’s place. To be expected, however,” the Hobbit answered, rubbing his thumb over his bearded chin in thought.

The expected, however, made Thorin frown.

“Expected?” Thorin questioned.

“Well, yes. He’s one of Master Baggins’s Dwarows, ain’t he? That spread through the Shire like wildfire when he lifted Master Baggins right off his feet and hugged him at the festival this past year, like he was the best sight in all of the Shire. Thought at first they were…close, ya see? Not that it matters out here in Buckland, but s’not talked about in _polite_ company,” the Hobbit explained with a roll of his eyes before he focused back on the conversation.

“But then we saw ‘ow Master Baggins was with Bofur, or near ‘im, and that ended those thoughts,” the Hobbit stated with a tiny shrug.

“Oh?” Thorin questioned.

“Well, Master Baggins isn’t really that respectable anymore, as he went on an adventure, so he wouldn’t care about _that_ anymore either. ‘Specially not with some other changes that happened. And…” the Hobbit explained but before he could continue, one of the other Hobbits, fair haired and dark skinned, with just a dusting of stubble, interrupted the older Hobbit.

“Ponies stabled, sir. Best behaving dears we’ve had for a while, unlike them Took menaces,” the Hobbit explained and before Thorin could ask about Bilbo, demand answers, he was being ushered across, the toll already having been paid by Dori and Thorin resisted the urge to snarl and snap.

Barely.

It was a two hour march to a place Dori knew, and the only inn around, near the Green Dragon.

Normally, it catered to husbands that had been kicked out of their houses by their wives, but they were willing to make an exception for soaked Dwarves as the thunder began to rumble through the sky.

* * *

Bilbo sighed as he leaned on his cane and the windowsill equally to stare out at the rain as thunder rolled across the sky, wincing as he saw the flicker of light dancing through the clouds.

The chill crept through the glass and made Bilbo’s nose scrunch slightly as it brushed across his skin and he leaned back until he was situated back on his feet, ignoring the twinge of pain that ran like dragon fire up his nerves to curl around the base of his skull.

“Don’t do that. You’ll undo all our hard work,” Glorfindel complained, and Bilbo was content to ignore the mad Elf.

After getting to know him over the course of three days, Bilbo found that ignoring Glorfindel every once in a while reminded him that, despite having a deep and long history within one of Bilbo’s ancient Elvish texts that had somehow ended up in his hands, Glorfindel was just another Elf who had befriended a Hobbit.

A Hobbit who was used to surly Dwarves and in love with one who was stolen and ripped from him and…

“Aier, don’t,” Glorfindel suddenly cut in, supporting Bilbo.

“Short one, really?” Bilbo retorted softly and he heard Glorfindel’s sharp inhale before the Elf suddenly let out a soft laugh.

Bilbo looked over at him, raising an eyebrow, and Glorfindel smiled at him. “I came here for Elrohir,” he stated and Bilbo nodded slowly.

“I wasn’t expecting to make a friend,” he continued softly.

“Well, I wasn’t expecting to befriend an Elf who broke into my home and still won’t explain how he did it, but life is full of surprises,” Bilbo responded and suddenly clutched at his chest, hissing out through his teeth.

There were hands supporting him and then he was being placed in a chair, his leg propped up, and concerned voices curling through the air.

But it felt like something was trying to rip its way out of his chest and he clutched tighter. “It is the Family! Something’s changing,” Frodo’s voice cut through and Bilbo nodded in agreement.

“But…they aren’t requited are they?” Elrohir questioned, and Bilbo nodded in agreement, even as he felt someone running their fingers through his hair while someone lay warmed towels over his leg.

“That…it is complicated. They aren’t dead, just…something has changed,” Bilbo explained breathlessly as he blinked, trying to get his world back in focus, only to find Glorfindel still kneeling down next to his leg and the source of the fingers in his hair was Bofur, who looked quite relieved to see Bilbo back to himself.

“Like what?” Fíli inquired.

“Like…never mind,” Bilbo answered and grabbed his cane, attempting to lever himself up and out of here.

No need to explain it was like his heart was starting to beat again.

He pretended like he hadn't heard Fíli's sharp inhale of breath when the cane caught the light, and Bilbo limped out of the room, pretending that his secret was still unknown instead of being found out once more.

* * *

The next morning dawned bright and two people were pulled from their sleep.

One of them woke with the faint thrum of hope curling through them, the other as if a heavy weight was where his heart used to be.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Originally, this was going to have three days of Bilbo and Glorfindel bonding.
> 
> That didn't happen.
> 
> So, just imagine what Bilbo had to put up with and somehow, they became friends.
> 
> I should mention that for Hobbits, friendship almost always ends up as Family. It is just the way they are.
> 
> "Aier" means "short one".
> 
> Don't worry, Bilbo will get his "revenge."


	31. The Thunder That Brings the Rain

"All right, we've rented a forge, but it is up near Hobbiton, kind-of. I don't know, but I can find it, so we'll be gone for the day. 'We' being Fíli, Kíli, and I. I don't know what Elrohir and Elladan are packing up for," Glorfindel stated.

"Well, Dandelion, I believe they said something about scouting,” Bilbo answered as he slipped a pie into the oven to cook, knowing that it would be done by Lunch.

“Are you three taking the cart then?” Bilbo inquired before he looked up to eye Glorfindel, who was frowning at him with narrowed eyes.

“Dandelion? Really?” Glorfindel asked.

“You call me short one, I call you a weed,” Bilbo retorted and Glorfindel grinned before he settled next to Bilbo and hugged him.

“Well, so long as I am your weed, that’s okay,” he teased and Bilbo did not hesitate to elbow Glorfindel in the chest.

The elbowing of Glorfindel in the chest was met with laughter and Kíli clomped in to find Glorfindel still curled around Bilbo. “Oi, off the Hobbit,” Kíli demanded and Glorfindel pouted as he rested his chin on Bilbo’s head before he sighed.

“All right,” he whined and slunk away from Bilbo to pout while sitting on the floor.

“Oh, Dandelion, get off the floor before you get dirt all over you,” Bilbo scolded, even as he handed a basket of food to Kíli.

“That is for you three to _share_. That’s all the scones and biscuits I’ve been baking over the past three days I’ve been slapping all of your…what do you think you are doing Bofur?” Bilbo demanded, even as he focused on the Broadbeam Dwarf.

“I’ve decided to take advantage of all the people heading into Hobbiton and go there myself. I am sure there are more than a few people who would be happy to sell me some wood to whittle with,” Bofur answered.

Bilbo gave him an unimpressed look at that and sighed. “So, you are all going to leave me alone to fend for myself?” Bilbo asked with a small smile.

“Never!” Kíli exclaimed.

“We’d never do that to you Bilbo,” Fíli agreed as he settled his pack on the bench, perking up at the Second Breakfast spread across the table.

“Exactly! Frodo is here!” Glorfindel pointed out and Frodo, who was spreading cream across his scones, nodded in agreement, though he did not look up from his work.

“Very diligent, our little faunt,” Bofur praised.

“Mmm-hmmm,” Bilbo answered before he smiled brightly at them.

“Well then, Bofur, you may borrow Myrtle, if you so wish. Fíli, Kíli, take Blackberry and the cart,” Bilbo stated and turned to his cutting board.

“Be back by supper or I’ll lock you out of the smial and you’ll have to sleep in the barn,” Bilbo warned and Frodo giggled while Glorfindel pouted.

Elrohir and Elladan, who ducked in at that time, grinned before they both swept in to press a kiss to each side of the Hobbit’s head. “Well, how about tomorrow for supper?” Elladan asked.

“That’ll be fine, but _supper_ is when respectable people come home,” Bilbo responded and they laughed before they snatched some biscuits and ran.

Bilbo looked after them with a sigh before he shook his head and returned to prepping food for supper, and lunch. He was thinking he should make a long-cook stew over the open flame. There was some rabbit meat that he could mix up with the beef broth he had saved…

He started when he both Fíli and Kíli suddenly did as Elladan and Elrohir did. “Stay safe,” Fíli stated.

“Uncle Bilbo,” Kíli whispered softly before he quickly retreated with Fíli to go take care of Blackberry and the cart, leaving Bilbo to stay leaning against the counter.

“Aier?” Glorfindel questioned.

“Dandelion?” Bilbo retorted and Bofur snorted with amusement while Frodo giggled.

“I get it, I get it,” Glorfindel stated and then suddenly he was practically curled around Bilbo.

“Off my uncle you over-grown weed!” Frodo demanded and Bilbo burst out laughing while Glrofindel made wounded noises.

This was followed shortly by a howl of laughter and a thump of a body hitting the floor as Bofur collapsed in his laughter.

And the sounds of their merriment echoed through Tookbank, bringing a smile to the other residents’ faces.

On the horizon, storm clouds gathered.

* * *

Thorin grumbled as he tried to figure out how to talk to the Hobbits without insulting them.

His best bet so far seemed to be sending Dori and Ori out and having them report to him. Bifur had gone wandering and, surprisingly, Nori had volunteered to follow while Glóin worked on their accounts.

Óin was taking advantage of their rest to make up more ointments and salves to replace those he had used (as well as to corner Thorin to check over the King’s injuries).

Dwalin was keeping to Thorin’s side, and he sighed a bit as he sat outside, eyeing the storm clouds on the horizon.

It was nearing Lunchtime and he looked up as Ori came up. “Did you find out anything?” he asked and Ori was already shaking his head.

“The moment I started even _suggesting_ Bilbo, they all clamed up. If I didn’t know better, I’d say they were ashamed of something,” Ori stated and Thorin nodded, even as Dori walked up.

“No, I found out nothing. One started to say something about a Lobelia Sackville-Baggins, but…in the end, nothing,” Dori stated and Thorin growled as he leaned back.

“That’s because you ask the wrong people, don’t they Bifur?” Nori responded, even as Bifur nodded.

Thorin sat up and Nori grinned. “The kids flocked to Bifur, especially when he started showing off those toys of his. One small one, Pippin, started chattering about Frodo and his ‘Uncle Bilbo’ and how they lived in Tookbank,” Nori stated.

“Tookbank?” Dwalin asked with a frown, and even Ori was frowning before he hauled one of his books out of his satchel.

“What?” Thorin asked as Ori stilled while Dwalin shook his head.

“That’s in the exact opposite direction of Bag-End,” Ori stated.

He sighed and shifted the book in his hands. “In fact, the only way I can see to get to it is…down the Great East Road, and hang a left at the sign,” Ori stated and his eyes narrowed as he tried to read it.

He startled when Nori suddenly produced an eyeglass, usually for gem cutters, but the magnifying glass would work outside of that line of work.

Ori sighed and resettled it. “Off the beaten track. It’s…it’s nothing like Bag-End,” Ori stated and Thorin sat up suddenly as if Orcs had started howling in the distance.

“What?” Thorin asked.

“That’s…that’s why he didn’t…didn’t answer our letters. He…he lost his home,” Ori stated and Thorin stood up.

“Who lives there now?” Thorin asked.

“I’ll find out. You and the rest of our motley crew should find Bilbo,” Nori stated and Bifur muttered out, in Khuzdhuil, “And Bofur. The children were squealing about him.”

“Very well. I’ll see if we can procure ourselves some ponies. Glóin!” Thorin called as he stood up, power resting around him like a cloak.

In the distance, the thunder rumbled.

* * *

Bofur chuckled as the children rushed around him, Bofur already passing some simple toys out. “Mister Bofur!” Pippin squealed as he crashed into Bofur’s leg, Merry quickly following to haul him off.

“Pippin, Merry, what has you two running about?” Bofur asked.

“Mister Bofur, some Dwarrows are in the Shire!” Pippin squealed out.

“Oh? Well, the routes between the Blue Mountains…” he began, but Merry was shaking his head.

“Nononononononono!” Pippin whined, kicking his feet slightly and Merry sighed as he hefted up Pippin some, though the small faunt was still kicking and pouting.

“A starfish-head and one with an axe in the head and one with a bunch of knit and one that reminds me of Mama! They’ve been asking about Uncle Bilbo! And…” Pippin began and fell quiet, suddenly his face so full of sadness that Bofur began to panic.

“Pippin, what did you tell them?” he asked and Pippin sunk further into Merry’s grip.

“He told them where Uncle Bilbo lived,” Merry stated.

Bofur stilled and carefully had Pippin look up. “Hey, it’s not all bad! Just…how long ago was this?” Bofur asked.

“Lunchtime,” Pippin whispered.

Bofur immediately nodded and stood up. “Okay, I got to go little faunts. I’ll be back tomorrow,” he stated and hurried to the forge where Myrtle waited with Blackberry.

Above, the thunder boomed as the rain began to fall.


	32. And the Rain Pours Down

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Also, I forgot this last time.
> 
> http://naturesoundsfor.me/Ashen-Ch-32
> 
> Soundscape thing for this chapter!

Thorin glared at the clouds as the thunder rolled above them and Dwalin frowned up at them as well while Ori tried to navigate his map with Dori at his side.

There had been no ponies available close to where they were, apparently most of the ponies being needed for work or were too young to be used, so they had had to make do on foot, which had not done much for Thorin’s mood.

He wanted to get to Bilbo and he wanted to get to his Hobbit _now_ preferably and…

“Mahal bury me in a rockslide where I stand,” Thorin grumbled as he ran a hand over his face.

“Bit hard to do, what with us being nowhere near a mountain,” Dwalin stated and Thorin did not hesitate to punch his oldest friend, hard, in the arm.

The returned punch did not surprise him, but the gentleness did. “What has you begging Mahal for death?” Dwalin asked.

“I’m getting possessive and he’s not even here,” Thorin grumbled.

“It is who we are. Wouldn’t be a Dwarf if you didn’t get possessive,” Dwalin stated.

Before Thorin could argue, there was Ori’s exclamation, followed by him shouting, “Found the sign!”

Thorin rushed forward and stared up at it.

Some of the signs were worn and hard to read, but Dori easily boosted Ori up, and he laughed. “Tookbank! That way!” Ori cried as he pointed.

The rain began to patter softly down as the thunder rumbled do to the Dwarves’ marrow.

* * *

Nori made his way around Bag-End, eyeing the state of the garden (unkempt, one of the beds was empty, and the grass seemed to almost be lackluster, even in the soft plip-plop of rain), and wondering if Bilbo had been forced to sell, before shaking his head.

He knew the signs of Hobbit wealth and Bilbo was the picture of it.

Even with the adventure, he would never have _had_ to sell.

“My, you’re a skulker aren’t ya?” a voice asked and Nori turned to find an elderly Hobbit leaning on a hoe and eyeing him.

“You’re Master Holman then?” Nori asked.

“You’re one of Master Baggins’s Dwarves then?” the elderly Hobbit shot back.

The man had to be pushing into his 80s, at least.

“Might be,” Nori answered and Holman scoffed.

“You are. You were the skulker,” Holman stated and ran a thumb along his hoe.

“So…what is with all the Dwarves comin’ back now?” he asked.

“Well, our leader has been unable to leave Erebor till recently is a good one,” Nori stated.

Holman scoffed again and hummed softly as he took out what could only be a whetstone and began to run it along the edge of his hoe. “Not an excuse. Any of ya could’ve come with him, at least. Instead, you left him to travel back, without you, and crippled too. Always knew Dwarves were the worst of it,” Holman stated, but Nori focused on the words before the insult.

“What do you mean crippled?” Nori asked, even as his being filled with worry.

The rain began to pick up speed as it fell like a curtain around them and Holman gave a very unkind laugh. “Of course. Take him on an adventure and then leave him to pick up the pieces of his life, ‘cept his life is on the other side of the Misty Mountains! I always knew Dwarves were trouble! All big folk are, but Dwarves are the worst of ‘em! Eru help Yavanna if her husband is half as stubborn as his children!” Holman snapped and began to hobble off.

When Nori tried to follow, Holman had no trouble becoming suddenly spry and trying to drive the hoe into Nori’s skull.

Nori turned to Bag-End and decided it would be best to try his luck in there.

* * *

The pattering of rain and the distant rumble of thunder was oddly soothing to Bilbo, even as it made pain lance up his leg and through the back of his skull.

Afternoon tea was unusually quiet, though that was to be expected with the way the weather had turned and Bilbo sighed softly. “Frodo, can you find me that small wool blanket and bring two of my braces? I’m going to see if I can wrap it around my leg to help keep it warm,” Bilbo stated and Frodo nodded eagerly before running off to find the wool blanket Bilbo spoke of.

Another rumble of thunder seemed to vibrate in Bilbo’s chest and he looked out the window to see flickering lights in the sky. “I wonder if the Sky King is arguing with the Stone King again,” Bilbo murmured softly when there came a loud pounding on his door.

He groaned and grabbed his cane, even as the pounding grew louder. “Give me a moment!” Bilbo shouted as he slowly levered himself up into standing and began to limp his way to the front door.

“I swear to all that is green and growing, if that is you coming around _again_ Agate Brandybuck, I will twist your…” Bilbo grumbled only to trail off once he had opened his door in a way that left the left half of his body hidden by whoever was on the front porch.

For standing on his front step was a soaking wet Dwarf King who still made Bilbo’s heart surge.

Whether from fear or joy, however, Bilbo had no idea.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Uh-oh.
> 
> Seems Bofur didn't make it.


	33. A Faunt's Promise

Thorin felt relief fill him when he saw his Hobbit standing there.

True, he was still half behind a door that was not his, not the green door at the top of a hill with a rune etched into it, but he was _there_. He was there, in front of Thorin, and he was breathing.

This was not a dream, for never in a dream would Thorin be soaked when seeing his Hobbit for a first time since that horrible, horrific, moment on the battlements when he threatened his Hobbit’s life, and Bilbo was alive.

He was alive and whole and Thorin reached out for him with a whispered, “Burglar.”

Because that was who he was to Thorin, but not in the way Thorin had said it back on the battlements what felt like a lifetime ago.

Bilbo Baggins was _Thorin’s_ burglar, his Hobbit, and his Only and he wanted nothing more than to pull Bilbo out into the rain with him.

But Thorin speaking again seemed to make something snap within Bilbo and he watched as his Hobbit paled.

It was like a punch to the sternum to see what was before just shock twist into absolute _terror_ , the Hobbit pulling back from the door, as if he was trying to escape a hungry Warg, stepping back as he did so.

His retreat, however, was halted as he cried out in pain, stumbling back another step before he collapsed to the ground, a clatter like that of wood against wood registering distantly, but not enough to pull Thorin from the fact that Bilbo was _hurt_ , that maybe he wasn’t as whole as Thorin had been led to believe.

When he moved to enter the Hobbit dwelling, however, he found his actions quickly cut short.

A shrill shout that sounded like a war cry, words and all, cut through the air before a broom crashed down on Thorin’s skull. “Get out!” came a shrill scream and Thorin was retreating rapidly, in hopes of gaining the upper hand, but the broom was swung with precision.

If it was not physically hitting him, the bristles were scratching across his face, forcing Thorin to close his eyes against the attack. When he backed up enough and another Dwarf, Dwalin, tried to approach, that same war-like cry came out and Thorin could open his eyes.

However, upon opening his eyes, he found his attacker was a tiny Hobbit.

A tiny Hobbit who wielded the broom as one would wield an axe, and he swung it in an upswing, one Thorin recognized as one of Kíli’s favored moves with an axe, catching the back of Dwalin’s knee and sending him sprawling before he turned his attention to the rest, backing up so he filled the doorway with his broom.

“Little one…” Thorin began, but the little Hobbit seemed unwilling to hear, letting out the Hobbit war-cry once more as he charged.

The broom spun around and Thorin quickly backed up, Dwalin joining him.

It went against everything Dwarrows were to put a child in danger, outside of the training ring (but that was to protect them in the long run) and fighting the tiny Hobbit that was obviously a child stayed their hands.

“No more Dwarrows! You’ve done enough!” the little Hobbit shouted once he had chased their entire company out into the muddy road with the ferocity of a mother Dwarf protecting her children.

They stumbled and tripped, more than half of the company sprawled in the mud as the little Hobbit locked the gate on them and ran back up to the doorway.

He glared viciously at them all, all bristling fury and with a face twisted like an angered Warg. “Go away!” he snarled out, once he was at the door and then, much to the shock of Thorin, he _slammed_ the round door closed.

Thorin stumbled to his feet and stared at the smial, wondering what just happened.

It didn’t get any easier when the sound of a pony galloping through the mud (a dangerous thing, as the pony could easily slip and break a leg in the treacherous conditions) filled the air, followed by Bofur’s cursing did little to ease Thorin’s confusion.

“What have I missed?” Thorin asked.

* * *

Frodo panted as he dropped the broom and locked the front door against intruders and ran to Uncle Bilbo’s side.

“Uncle Bilbo?” Frodo asked softly, whimpering softly to find that his uncle was breathing too fast, and, when Frodo pressed on Uncle Bilbo’s chest, which was still a tad too thin for a Hobbit, it felt like his uncle’s heart was trying to beat out of his chest.

Frodo whimpered and scrambled, carefully, over his uncle, but he got no reaction, his uncle seemingly lost to his pain. “Uncle Bilbo, wake up!” Frodo cried, sobbing softly when he got no reaction except for some pitiful twitching.

Frodo gasped softly and curled up against his uncle’s torso, clutching at the vest.

There was a knocking on the door, but Frodo ignored it, just trying to rouse his Uncle Bilbo to at least look at him, but it seemed his uncle’s mind was far away.

“Frodo, its Bofur. I promise I won’t let the other Dwarrows in,” Bofur urged from behind the bolted door, but Frodo felt all his helplessness in regards to his uncle’s condition morph into rage within him.

“No! You brought them here! No more _Dwarrows_!” Frodo snarled before he turned back to Uncle Bilbo and tried to get him to at least acknowledge him.

But with rumble of thunder that seemed to make the glass shake in their panes, all Uncle Bilbo did was let out a strangled sound of pain before he seemed to faint dead away on the floor of his front hall.

Frodo trembled at that and clutched tighter at his uncle’s vest, terrified to go get the quilt off his uncle’s bed and come back to discover his uncle had been stolen away by Dwarrows again.

“Don’t worry Uncle Bilbo, I won’t let them get you again,” Frodo whispered before he clutched desperately at his uncle, shivering as the rain came down harder and the thunder shook the glass in their panes.


	34. And So It Is Said (Kinda)

Bofur sighed as he leaned his head against the door, listening to Frodo's distress before he turned and headed to where Myrtle was waiting for him. "You couldn't write first? Maybe say, 'oh, by the way, I rescind your banishment and I am sorry about leaving you for a rock'?" Bofur snapped at Thorin as he walked down the path, squelching through the mud.

He didn't make a sound as Thorin grabbed him in a rage before immediately releasing him.

While his emotional control was better, being snapped at after seeing Bilbo was probably one step too far.

A mumbled apology doesn’t stop Bofur from stumbling slightly from the sudden grip and release. Myrtle's ears snap back at both actions, but she does nothing to the King, or any of the other Dwarrows.

Bofur wishes he could ride her straight back to the forge, but her sides were heaving and she needs to be dried off, bundled up, and given hot mash with warm water. So, he would do that and _then_ he would get one of the Elvish horses, and…

His thoughts derailed when a cry echoed over the thunder, like a challenge to the sky itself, and a gray horse was leaping over the wall, and charging down the road.

Bofur stared after the departure before Myrtle nudged him, hard, at his back, and Bofur focused on getting Myrtle dried off and warm in the stable.

* * *

Glorfindel was working on the leather straps when he felt a familiar stirring against the back of his mind. Asfalroth, one of Oromë’s own stallions that wandered the forests of the Valinor, suddenly called.

He stilled and looked up, staring through the rain, the thunder fading away from his senses, everything falling away but the feeling of Asfalroth charging towards him.

The bond between them had been strong in the Valinor and had only grown stronger with time. _“Asfalroth?”_

_“Bilbo.”_

Glorfindel cursed and rushed out into the rain, ignoring the cries as Asfalroth rushed forward, circling Glorfindel once and then Glorfindel was on his back. “Bilbo’s in trouble,” Glorfindel offered and then they were gone, Asfalroth surging forward and away from the forge. He leaned over the gray stallion’s neck, and Asfalroth, somehow, picked up speed as Glorfindel murmured in Queyna, ignoring how Asfalroth easily danced around any in their path, focusing his mind forward.

And then his mind touched _Dwarrows_.

“May Yavanna forgive me for what I am about to do,” Glorfindel murmured as Asfalroth slid to a stop in front of the smial.

He ignored the Dwarrows, instead walking around, the booming of the thunder making the windowpanes shudder.

He brushed off the hand that touch his elbow as he walked around to the back of the house. And then he twitched out his lockpicks, picked the lock quickly and slipped inside the smial, shutting, and locking, the door behind him.

He would give the Dwarrows five minutes to figure out the door, tops.

In the meantime, he had a friend to take care of.

* * *

The smial is cold, which is not doing Bilbo any favors, and Glorfindel is quick to dry and change before he heads off to find them.

And find them he does, though they are on the floor, which does neither of them any favors.

Frodo is huddled against Bilbo’s chest, sobbing and shaking and Glorfindel immediately kneels down next to Frodo. “Frodo?” he calls softly and Frodo’s head snaps up to look at him.

“Fin…” Frodo began to sob out and Glorfindel immediately pulls the faunt into a hug.

He’s so young, and he’s trying so hard, and Bilbo is trying harder, and Glorfindel just wants to spirit them all away to Rivendell. He does this for a moment, and then he’s sending Frodo off to get the quilt.

Distantly, he can hear the lock being shifted and Glorfindel waited. Frodo had returned with the quilt, which Glorfindel immediately tucked around Bilbo. “Mahal,” a voice swore and Frodo turns, and Glorfindel is prepared to swear that he is looking at Náin, son of Durin VI, Crown Prince of Khazad-dûm, King for a year before Durin’s Bane slew him, standing there instead of Frodo.

That this is not a faunt child, but a dwarfling, come back to life, and Glorfindel’s hand grips tight to Bilbo’s shoulder.

“Out,” Frodo hissed, and Glorfindel watches the one with hair in three peaks, beard in two, and wonders if he will listen.

“We swear we mean him no harm,” the Dwarf began, and Frodo moves.

Yes, he has definitely been practicing outside of lessons with Kíli, because he goes for the knees. The Dwaf is hindered by the fact he doesn’t want to hurt Frodo, while Frodo has no such hindrances.

Glorfindel wonders if maybe he should save the Dwarf, who is getting pummeled by a faunt, before he just scoops Bilbo up into his arms, wincing at the flashing of pain not his own that darts through his body, and heads to Bilbo’s room.

Once he gets Bilbo under covers and warmed up, then he’ll worry about those two.

If the snarls in Hobbitish are any indication, the Dwarf, Nori, has finally decided to fight back.

Good.

 _One_  of them needs to keep the faunt occupied if Thorin (and, oh, by Eru, there is no mistaking _that_ soul, the one that will make Elrohir angry and depressed all at once, and _why_ do Dwarrows always have to come back?) is to get inside.

* * *

The Dwarrows tromp in, slowly, carefully to wipe the dirt off on mats, as per the snarling, scruffed by Nori, child’s orders (though they still track mud inside, but sit on sheets that already seem dirty instead of directly on the furniture). “He is a nasty piece of work. Are we sure _our_ Bilbo is your guardian?” Nori questioned, lifting the child in question up a bit higher.

He regrets it when a hard soled foot kicks out, getting him solidly in the chin.

He holds the child away and the being snarls at him. “Frodo, yer uncle won’t be happy with you kickin’ guests,” Bofur stated.

“They aren’t guests! _They_ weren’t invited!” Frodo snarled as he twisted in Nori’s grip.

“I’d let him go,” Bofur warned.

Before Nori can ask, there is a sharp pain in his hand and he let’s go, surprised by the bloody cut across his hand.

Frodo drops and rolls in a practiced way that suggests someone has possibly been tossing him off of something rather high, and in his hand is a bloody, if small, crochet hook.

“Told you,” Bofur stated and headed over to Frodo, who shifted his weight, and _that_ was Fíli.

Bofur immediately stopped and sighed, watching Frodo with a weight to his shoulders that suggested he had been in this place before, except maybe with less violence.

“Well, your nephews are here,” Nori stated, but Thorin only lets out a low grunt of understanding.

Frodo, somehow, seems to become angrier. His eyes are hard and he’s too old and too young at the same time. “Frodo, where’s the tea?” comes the Elf’s voice and Frodo refuses to move.

“Frodo, the tea,” the Elf presses as he steps into the sitting room and Frodo hesitates.

And then pads away, the crochet hook disappearing up his sleeve.

The Elf, somehow, seems to stand tall despite bending overt to fit in the Hobbit’s home. His eyes flit across the Dwarrows and he taps his fingers on the door frame. “I take it that none of you, except Bofur, knew the extent of Bilbo’s injuries?” he inquired and Bofur scuffed at the floor with a socked foot while the others shook their head.

Nori doesn’t say anything.

“Hmm. Of course. Thranduil was probably a moron as well. Orophor was not much better. Actually, he was worse. And Legolas probably likes Bilbo as well, which just adds to it. That leaves the question of why Bofur didn’t explain anything,” he continued and Bofur refused to look up.

“Broadbeams,” he muttered as he walked through the sitting room.

“Frodo, thank you for the tea. Please take it to Bilbo. He’s a bit…muzzy, but that should help,” the Elf continued and they watched Frodo pad away, and there was the sound of a door shutting.

“Dwarrows have not changed. At all. Why is that? Still the same rock-headed, moronic…” the Elf muttered and sighed, rubbing his temples.

“I don’t want to deal with this. I shouldn’t have to deal with this. Why do I have deal with this?” he continued to mutter, ignoring how the Dwarrows were glaring at him.

Something about him, however, was nagging at Nori.

Like he should know the Elf.

“Master Elf,” Thorin growled.

“Glorfindel and I am far older than you could even _fathom_ ,” Glorfindel corrected and continued to rub his temples.

“What do you know?” he asked.

“He was injured. Severely,” Thorin answered.

“And?” Glorfindel offered.

“It had to happen during the battle,” Balin continued and Glorfindel hummed a bit before he inspected his nails.

Nori’s eyes narrowed at the Elf. “Anything else?” Glorfindel asked.

“No. We had no idea where he was till we got his letters,” Thorin rumbled, his hands clenching, tight, on the arm rests.

Glorfindel hummed again and considered. “During the battle, something broke his left shankbone,” he stated and Nori felt his heart still.

“It had to be rebroken in Rivendell and reset due to the fact it started to heal wrong, and he spent a year healing, refusing to speak of his nightly terrors,” he continued idly, but there was something distant and dark and _terrible_ in Glorfindel’s eyes.

He was keeping a tight rein on it and he sighed. “The ironic thing is, even though all of this, he technically brought his worst pain on himself. He never _explained_ , and he was just going to keep living through it, as if we would let him,” Glorfindel muttered and suddenly turned.

“You have to fix your own messes. Beginning with forgiveness,” he stated.

“He’s done nothing wrong!” Thorin snarled as he stood and Glorfindel turned to pin his frightening blue eyes on Thorin.

“Shouldn’t you tell him that?” he inquired and then he left the Dwarrows to their silence.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You know that feeling you get when you slide down an ice slide or a slip 'n slide?
> 
> That was this chapter, all the way through.
> 
> It just did not slow down till it plunged into the water.
> 
> *sighs*


	35. A Fever

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a bridging chapter, so short, sorry.

Glorfindel sighed as he watched Bilbo shudder, his cheeks flushed with a fever, most likely brought about by the sudden return of Dwarrows to his life. Specifically, what had caused the fever was, most likely, the return of his Heart.

Glorfindel immediately began to press a cool rag against Bilbo’s forehead, cleaning away the worst of the sweat and wincing at each whimper of pain that left Bilbo as the shudders made his leg ache anew. And while Glorfindel _really_ wanted to throw Thorin into the room, Bilbo was slightly out of it.

Maybe once the fever dropped slightly and Bilbo was more coherent.

Glorfindel then let his eyes drift to Frodo, who was curled up tight against Bilbo, one hand gripping the collar of Bilbo’s shirt while the other hand seemed to be buried under the covers. There were dried tear tracks on his face and Glorfindel didn’t hesitate to reach over and begin wiping Frodo’s face.

He whined and twisted away, burying his face into Bilbo’s shoulder, causing Glorfindel to smile before he carefully returned to wiping the sweat off of Bilbo’s face. The shudders increased, briefly, and Glorfindel whispered an apology as he continued to clean away the sweat with a cool rag.

There was a knock on the bedroom door and Glorfindel tossed the rag onto the plate he had for wet rags before he went to open the door to reveal Óin on the other side. “No,” Glorfindel stated and the Dwarf scowled, even as Glorfindel lounged in the doorway to keep Óin out of the bedroom.

“Look, Elf, I’ve taken care of him before…” Óin argued.

“ _This_ is not a cold!” Glorfindel interrupted sharply and for a moment, a brief moment, he felt like he was facing the Balrog again.

He could feel the phantom sensation of the flame and shadow reaching into his very soul and trying to burn it out of his body, only for Glorfindel to meet him head on and fearless.

Of course, being fearless came with having nothing left to lose.

“Now see here Elf…” Óin began, but Glorfindel shook his head sharply.

“What do you know about Hobbits?” Glorfindel asked idly.

“They’re a gentle folk, with little use for fighting, and love their food and ale and a good pipe,” Óin answered.

“Their culture?” Glorfindel prompted.

“They…” Óin answered, only to fall silent.

Glorfindel raised an eyebrow in question and shifted so he was more comfortable against the doorway as he waited.

When Óin continued to be silent Glorfindel smiled and leaned back slightly, his head thunking lightly against the wood. His eyes dragged along the hallway to land on Thorin, who was standing on the other end, waiting.

Frodo had attempted to kick him in the knee earlier, which is why Glorfindel was keeping the faunt as far away from the Dwarrows as he could manage.

“What is it then?” Thorin asked.

“A…shock to the system. He’s lived two years, give or take, without…without…something he gave away. Something vital to Hobbit life. And, suddenly, that…something came back, was returned when he had learned to live without it,” Glorfindel explained softly.

“How?” Thorin questioned.

Glorfindel sighed. “Hobbits can survive what he, possibly foolishly, gave away,” Glorfindel answered just as the front door opened and the boys stumbled in, freezing upon seeing Thorin.

They didn’t have a chance to turn and run before Thorin was on them, scruffing them by the back of their coats. “You two are in so much trouble,” Thorin growled and both boys ducked their heads slightly, even as Fíli kicked the door shut.

“Well…I’m going to duck back in with Bilbo. Fíli, explain the Family thing of Hobbits, as Frodo keeps attacking them,” Glorfindel ordered as he ducked back into the bedroom.

Tomorrow, Bilbo would be able to talk again.

In the meantime, Glorfindel needed to end the shudders.

* * *

Bilbo blinked up at Glorfindel as pain and chills ran through him. The cold from the cloth made him shiver more and each shiver caused him to whimper in pain.

“I know. I’m sorry, I know,” Glorfindel soothed softly before he began to speak in a flowing language Bilbo did not know and warmth filled him.

“What’s that?” Frodo mumbled.

“Queyna,” Glorfindel answered simply.

Bilbo blinked sluggishly and then gasped as he felt a painful pins and needles feeling stab into his chest, into his heart. Glorfindel was immediately holding onto Bilbo, cursing quietly as he tried to hold Bilbo still.

“Oh, of course, you just _had_ to bloody give your Heart away, didn’t you?” Glorfindel grumbled as he kept Bilbo still while Frodo gasped softly.

“Not even Mama gave away her Heart,” Frodo whispered and Bilbo whimpered lowly as shivers made pain blaze up his spine to curl in his head like a dragon on their hoard.

“Your uncle is a foolish Hobbit,” Bilbo grit out and Glorfindel shushed him.

“No, you just reciprocated. Not your bloody fault the Melkor cursed Dwarf didn’t realize what he was accepting. Not your bloody fault Hobbits need words while Dwarrows just need action!” Glorfindel snapped as he tried to keep Bilbo still and his leg jerked when a shudder ran down his spine.

He couldn’t keep back the near scream of pain and Glorfindel’s cursing with Frodo’s cry of fear followed him into darkness.


	36. Family, Guilt, and Wakefulness

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I AM SO SORRY!! I had not realized that when I was saving the Draft, it was sending a notice. THIS IS THE REAL CHAPTER and I am SO SORRY you were getting notifications. Until I got an ask on my Tumblr I had not realized that was happening. On the bright side, this is 3,000+ words, so there is that.
> 
> And the Tumblr blog (link in beginning notes) for this has been created.
> 
> So...yay?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> http://naturesoundsfor.me/Ashen-Ch-36
> 
> (Soundscape, yay?)
> 
> http://ashenphoenixfanfic.tumblr.com/
> 
> (Tumblr account for this fanfic)

Distantly, Fíli wondered what the cost would be if he cursed the Elf in every tongue he knew as Thorin's eyes turned on him, hard and unyielding. "You two are so very lucky your mother wishes to kill you herself, or you two would be dead where you stand," Thorin rumbled lowly in Westron.

Fíli felt himself relax at those words, despite the fact they sounded like a threat.

Fíli knew his uncle and, despite the head injury, his uncle had remained the same. When threats were snarled in Westron at any Dwarf, or those Thorin considered kin, the words were just for venting frustration so he didn’t do something unforgivable, like throwing someone off the wall above Erebor to their deaths.

As a random example, of course, not at  _all_  a reference to something that happened before a great battle that they all nearly died in and would have were it not for a brave little burglar.

Not at all.

Fíli was starting to think that maybe he was spending too much time around Kíli  _or_  they were sharing a headspace again, for those thoughts were more akin to his little brother than to Fíli.

“Now that that is out of the way; what is the ‘family thing of Hobbits’?” Thorin demanded and Fíli began to mentally curse Glorfindel as he stared at his uncle while his brain scrambled to find an answer that would appease Thorin while also not betraying Bilbo’s trust.

Bilbo had, after all, not explained that part of, necessary, culture to them for a reason. Fíli did not understand the reasoning behind it, but he did know that Bilbo hadn’t told them for a reason Fíli was sure was a pretty good one.

“Ah, Hobbit Families…they’re a complicated mess,” Fíli stated as he let his eyes dart to the side, unsure of how to continue.

How could he explain that  _they_  were Bilbo’s Family, the ones he  _chose_  to be at his side and how they failed their Burglar, their Hobbit, their  _Bilbo_  in so many ways and he claimed them Family still?

How could Fíli explain that?

Not to mention the cold of the rain, soaked into his clothes and sticking to him, coarse and disgustingly sticky, is starting to itch across his skin with each small shiver.

And oh, Mahal, if he was cold…Bilbo must be  _freezing_.

His leg! Oh, by Mahal, his leg must be killing him. He was probably…oh,  _Mahal_ , Bilbo.

Fíli let out an involuntary sound of surprise as he was suddenly tugged forward, out of his thoughts and into a one-armed hug. There was a familiar hand in his hair, and a slight hitching in the shoulders he could feel, but not really see, and then Thorin sighed heavily.

Fíli was then being released and found himself staring into his King’s, not his Uncle’s, face, and Fíli wondered what was going through his Uncle’s mind that he had to lock himself away from his  _nephews_.  

“Go get out of your wet clothes, dried off, and changed. We’ll talk in the sitting room,” Thorin rumbled lowly and then walked away, back straight and shoulders back.

“And when you do come back, I want an actual explanation of Hobbit Families,” he added as he drifted out of sight, and Fíli only nodded before he dragged Kíli off.

* * *

Fíli was gnawing on his lower lip, the corner closest to his left mustache braid, and Thorin wonders when that habit came back, or if Fíli is just that nervous.

“Well?” Thorin inquired as Kíli shifted in his seat to continue rubbing his prosthetic dry.

“For Hobbits, Kin can be Family, but Family isn’t always Kin,” Fíli began and Thorin took a deep breath, to rein in his natural reaction of smacking Fíli upside the head for his cryptic words.

“What Fíli means is that Bilbo’s Family wasn’t very big back here, during the Quest,” Kíli stated and Fíli shot his younger brother a look, even as Kíli worked on drying the prosthetic off, muttering under his breath as he did so.

“He had family. He talked about his family tree once,” Ori protested and Kíli snorted before he began to continue to clean the water out of any tiny pockets where it could do damage.

“That’s not Family. Family is choice. Family is who the Hobbits  _pick_  to be the people they consider better than Kin. They…pick them. But in a Hobbity way without actually saying anything and it is something more. A bond, stretched across Middle Earth, an  _actual_  bond that tugs at them and tells them where their Family is. And they have the right to break it, to say you are no longer Family…” Fíli explained before he trailed off and stared out the window.

The rain picked up even as the thunder seemed to roll away, traveling from the little Hobbit burrow under an unfamiliar hill as Fíli stared. “Hobbits…they let their Family borrow things. It is just to borrow, to start the Bond, to say…’You are my Family.’ And the person responds, by giving…by giving an item back, recognizing the Bond,” Fíli continued as he began to rub his arms, even as Thorin felt like his heart was being carved out of his chest with a spoon.

Because Bilbo had never given him  _anything_.

“But…when it isn’t returned, it  _hurts_  them,”  Kíli cut in, now staring at the prosthetic in his lap.

“They’re hurt, continuously, by that unrequited Bond, and the farther it is stretched, the more it hurts, and the more it hurts, the more they  _long_  to go back home. And when home…when home is someplace they cannot be, they just stare out the window and  _wish_. It is so obvious, looking back. And the cane helps,” Kíli continued and Fíli looked at his little brother.

Before Fíli can ask, before  _Thorin_  can ask, there is a scream.

Or something close to one.

Thorin’s head snapped toward the sound, and he’s on his feet, but there is no further sound, but he knows it. That sound of pure agony is written into Thorin’s bones, having only heard it once, and then not knowing the source, not knowing that it was  _Bilbo_ , but now he does.

“Bilbo,” Thorin gasped out and there are hands pressing against his chest, and a soft voice telling him he  _can’t_  go in there, not until Bilbo asks for him.

That he has to stay in the den, separated by wood and fire and door and  _Elf_  and suddenly all that is missing is a river, and they would be back in Mirkwood by description.

Thorin trembles and then he’s collapsing back into his chair, staring in the direction the sound had come from. Someone is then pressing something into his hands, and he is pulled from his thoughts to find that he’s holding an oaken cane.

It is finely crafted, well taken care of and obviously meant to help someone over a great deal of terrain. It is, quite possibly, one of the finest canes he’s ever seen crafted. “Why are you showing me this?” Thorin asked as he looked up at whoever (Kíli) had given him the cane.

“Just  _look_  at it!” Kíli pressed and Thorin glared tiredly at his youngest nephew.

“Why? Bilbo never let me borrow anything,” Thorin questioned.

“Just  _look_!” Kíli snapped and Thorin looked at the cane.

Still a very nice cane and Kíli growled lowly. “If I have to paint the bloody thing, I will. I will accept the consequences for that, if you don’t  _open your eyes_! Just stop…stop being sad before you know everything about the situation and  _look_! Actually  _look_  for once in your life!” Kíli ordered, his voice cracking slightly over his words as he leaned on Thorin’s chair, curled over his uncle.

Thorin sighed as he looked back down at the cane and let his fingers trace along the wood when he felt an odd indentation. He leaned forward and began to turn it within the light the fire gave off, trying to find it again.

And then, carefully carved into the wood, amongst the whorls, were shields.

He let his fingers drift across one, rough fingers catching within the slight carving and he looked up at Kíli, choking on his words even as silent tears streaked down his face.

He could not ask the question he so desperately wanted to ask, and he looked up when he heard a door open, followed by soft shuffling sounds.

Glorfindel was standing there and he let out a long sigh. “Bilbo needs to sleep. He’s…unconscious due to the pain, but he’ll be fine by tomorrow. And will most likely want to see you all then. In…small numbers or even just one at a time. Any more will upset him, or send him back into unconsciousness. And by supper, tomorrow, we’ll have two more guests. And one will not be pleased,” he explained softly.

“Elrohir?” Fíli questioned.

“Oh, yes. He’s very protective of Bilbo. It is, truly, not even entirely anyone’s fault in that regard. Elrohir was, of the two, the one who was our best ambassador a time ago,” Glorfindel answered and looked away.

“What is his problem with Dwarrows anyway?” Kíli asked.

Glorfindel let out a long sigh and looked out the window and into the darkness. “Ask him when he gets back. I’d best start up dinner. We all need to eat,” Glorfindel stated before he walked over to Thorin and carefully urged Thorin to release the cane enough to press a handkerchief into the freed hand.

“Bilbo won’t mind you using it, I am sure,” Glorfindel stated and then he left, the quiet shuffling, followed by a shutting of a door, prompting Thorin into moving.

He unfolded the handkerchief and paused when he saw the yellow flowers decorating the expanse of white. He paused to trace a finger along the six petals surrounding a centralized ‘vase’ and wondered what they were.

And why they had been embroidered onto the white cotton cloth.

* * *

Frodo stabbed his meat with his fork in a way that made Bofur fear for his continued existence.

It didn’t help that Frodo was glaring at the Dwarrows, his blue eyes narrowed as he nearly stabbed his cheek in an attempt to shovel the chicken into his mouth. “Frodo, stop glaring at your uncle’s guests,” Glorfindel chided gently as poured some milk into Frodo’s glass.

“Guests are invited. _They_ are  _not_ ,” Frodo responded and Glorfindel gave Frodo a very unimpressed look, before he, gently, smacked Frodo upside the head.

“Frodo Baggins, your uncle is having enough problems! Stop making it harder on him! They are  _Family_  and it is not their fault that he’s in pain over it! He did not explain and that absolves them of  _that_  wrong doing, am I clear?” Glorfindel demanded as Frodo slumped in his seat slightly.

“Yes Master Glorfindel,” Frodo murmured.

“Good,” Glorfindel answered as he settled some food on a tray and began to walk out of the dining room.

“Bofur, make sure he gets ready for bed on time. I will come to collect him once he’s dozing to sleep in the same room as Bilbo,” Glorfindel called and there was the sound of a door shutting, leaving Bofur to wonder if now would be a good time to try and get the rest of the Dwarrows on Frodo’s good side.

Well, they won a mountain back from a dragon, didn’t they?

Bofur, masterfully, managed not to groan when he remembered that it was  _Bilbo_  who had won them that mountain, before he focused on trying to get Frodo to cheer up, or at least look up.

All through dinner, however, anything Bofur tried to do either just fell flat or was rebuffed. Frodo just ate quietly, occasionally asking for more of one thing or the other, and drinking his milk. Any questions asked of him went unanswered and, by the time dinner was finished, silence reigned within the smial with only the soft pattering of rain against the windows breaking it.

They quietly picked the dishes up and Frodo just sat quietly at the table, hands folded on his lap as his feet swung through the air. Bofur tried to get Frodo to answer, but the faunt only hunched his shoulders in and Bofur gave up.

“Hey, Frodo?” Kíli questioned softly as he sat next to the faunt, groaning softly as he shifted so he could stretch the prosthetic out in front of him as he leaned back against the table.

Frodo hummed slightly, to show he heard. “What’s wrong?” Kíli asked softly.

“Uncle Bilbo gave away his Heart. Not even Mama did that. Daddy didn’t wanna have her tie herself down like that, but Uncle Bilbo did. He just…gave it away. Hobbits can only do that once. They can’t ever take it back or…and…I don’t know what happens, when someone you’ve given your Heart away to treats you horribly. I don’t know the long term effects of what it means to have someone you gave your Heart away to threaten to kill you, or abandon you. Everything we’ve been taught says it would do something worse than death, but it was never specified what it was, but Uncle Bilbo’s always been…he was fine, I thought. But…he gave his Heart away to someone who didn’t treasure it better than a good meal or a sunny day or a bright bouquet of flowers meant to make someone feel better about their day. A Heart is precious and there is only one and…Uncle Bilbo gave it away, but he’s here and he’s fully here. Sad and distant sometimes, but he is here and I don’t…I don’t understand,” Frodo explained softly, but Thorin had focused on Frodo, staring at the little faunt who now stared up at Kíli as if he could answer.

Kíli who looked just as lost as Frodo and Frodo slumped over slightly. “He gave his Heart away and…and it got thrown back into his face. It got thrown back in his face, and I don’t understand,” Frodo stated, shaking all over and Kíli slowly drew Frodo into a hug.

“Maybe…maybe he was loved in return and…and if that was felt, even when bad things were said, it was okay. Painful words don’t mean that love is gone,” Kíli stated softly, even as he urged the others to keep washing up, but they were all listening.

“ _Hobbits aren’t Dwarrows!_ ” Frodo shouted as he pulled away from Kíli and stumbled slightly as he came to a stop, staring at them with eyes that looked half-wild, shivering all over.

“We  _need_  words! Words are  _everything_  to Hobbits! If you say you wish us dead, we will fade away into nothing, even as our hearts beat on! If you demand that we leave, we will never enter your sight again of our own free will and  _when someone says they hate us_  and we have given our Hearts to them, they will break!” Frodo continued, loud in the smial that had otherwise been silent, his words catching as if he was trying not to scream and cry all at once.

Silence fell once more, only this time, it was Frodo’s breathing that broke it.

Each breath hitched and sounded as if it was laboring to enter his lungs and being shoved out with each exhale. He was trembling and shaking, his hands twitching as he tried his best to get his breathing under control before he hugged himself tight, curling in on himself. “Words are everything and I don’t understand how he is okay, or maybe he wasn’t and never was and maybe…maybe that’s why he was always so  _broken_. It was more than being sad, it was more than Unrequited Family, and I just thought it was that, but maybe…maybe it was that. Words are  _everything_  and someone broke Uncle Bilbo’s Heart with words and…and…” Frodo protested, before he broke down in tears.

Sobs rocked his body as he trembled and he continued to sob. “I can’t lose Uncle Bilbo too! He’s all I have left of Kin that want  _me_!” he sobbed out, breaking down right there within their dining room.

He was collapsing and then Thorin was across the room, already holding Frodo close as he soothed softly. At first, Frodo fought him, snarling between his sobs, but as Thorin hummed lowly and rubbed his back, Frodo slowly slumped against him, clinging to the comfort freely given.

Soon, Frodo’s sobs trailed off and soft snores took their place.

With that, Thorin carefully settled Frodo in Bofur’s arms and walked out the front door.

“I’ll go with him,” Dwailn stated and followed Thorin out while Bofur held Frodo close.

“Um…what just happened?” Ori asked softly while Kíli buried his face in his hands.

“I’m not quite sure,” Dori answered softly as he dried off the last of the dishes in his care.

Bofur just left the room, trying to figure out what this meant for Bilbo, and Thorin, in the long run.

* * *

Thorin let out a strangled shout as he as he kicked at nothing, the rain already starting to pick up speed as he stood there for a few minutes, just breathing.

And then he began to go through training movements.

His sword sliced through the night air as he twisted and turned. He moved with precision that had been granted by time and patience and drilling every day for at least two hours. Longer when allowed, and he was going to get in today’s two hours right here, right now, in the dark.

He moved as if he were a flame dancing across dead grass and that image was not one he needed, but he continued to move. He stabbed into the dark and he began to pant as the rain pounded down around him, the thunder renewing in its intensity, and soon he was just standing there, shivering.

His clothes felt heavy and itchy against his skin while his scalp was, occasionally, subjected to an almost painful tickling sensation running across it and down his neck as rain managed to sneak through his hair. He shuddered and shook his head, surprised when a voice stated, “You couldn’t have known.”

Thorin turned and stared at Dwalin, who was leaning just enough in the light spilling from the windows to be seen, but enough in the shadows to be suitably sneaky. “Known what?” Thorin demanded, though he knew what it was Dwalin was talking about.

“About Bilbo. None of us did. He didn’t explain, maybe because he thought he would have time, maybe because he was so used to staying quiet about his culture that he didn’t think to explain or that he would have to. That there would be time for us to stumble into it or what have you,” Dwalin stated.

“But I still hurt him,” Thorin responded.

“We all did. It wasn’t just you,” Dwalin answered.

“That and he did steal a treasure of the House of Durin. Death is usually what happens when that is  _attempted_ , let alone actually done. You were following our laws when you did that,” Dwalin continued.

“He shouldn’t have been forced to go there! He tried…he told me to give them his share. When I refused, he said he would give them his share anyway. I told him if he tried I would…I would kill him. I can’t…I remember being so angry, but he wasn’t there for most of it. To hear how the Men and Elves spoke down to us and treated us like we were in the wrong for just getting back our home. Had I explained, maybe he would have said nothing, done nothing. Maybe he wouldn’t have…given the Arkenstone away,” Thorin stated and made his way over to Dwalin, carefully leaning against the doorway near him.

“Well, maybe forgiveness needs to be given all around. Knowing Bilbo, he’ll give it in a heartbeat. His nephew might be more of a problem, though,” Dwalin answered and Thorin chuckled as he nodded before he closed his eyes and let the rain soak him to the bone, ignoring Dwalin when he suggested going inside.

Twice.

The third time Dwalin just hauled him back inside, uncaring of the consequences.

(The consequences was a shivering, glaring, Thorin who looked more like a drowned cat than a majestic king, which had Dwalin laughing at him for most of the evening till Thorin retreated to the guest room Bofur showed him to.)

* * *

Bilbo was muzzy the next morning and twitched slightly when he felt a cool hand brush against his forehead, before he blinked up to find Glorfindel smiling down at him. “Fever broken. Oh good. Your Dwarrows are waiting to see you, but I think after breakfast, if that is alright with you,” Glorfindel mused softly as he helped Bilbo sit up, which brought Bilbo’s attention to the faunt curled up against his side.

The faunt that did not even stir as Bilbo was moved and Bilbo immediately began to run his fingers through Frodo’s hair. “Breakfast sounds lovely,” Bilbo whispered and Glorfindel nodded slightly as he headed towards the door.

“Was it a dream?” Bilbo suddenly asked, cradling Frodo close as the faunt began to stir.

“Was what a dream?” Glorfindel asked.

“Thorin.”

His voice strained over the name as his heart gave a painful double-thump.

Or was it his Heart?

Bilbo couldn’t tell anymore.

He was such a mess of pain, he no longer could tell what came from his leg and what came from the outside force of Unrequited Bonds or his Heart being ripped apart with words. He took deep breaths as he waited for the answer, and Glorfindel shook his head.

“No. He is here. I’ll bring breakfast. And tea for Frodo,” Glorfindel stated, even as Frodo began to whimper lowly as he nuzzled closer to Bilbo’s warmth.

“Tea?” Bilbo questioned, but Glorfindel was already gone.

Bilbo immediately relaxed into the pillows and closed his eyes, wondering if maybe he should be worried.

He then let out a long sigh and pulled Frodo closer, wondering what this day would hold.

(And Bilbo hoped, for once, that his day would end as it had begun; muzzy and confused, with nothing feeling particularly good, but nothing feeling particularly  _bad_  either.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The flowers I suck at describing are daffodils.
> 
> They happen to mean "new beginnings."


	37. Ease and the Start of Healing

Bilbo let out a low sigh as he felt Frodo shift next to him, burying himself further into his side.

Breakfast had been finished some minutes ago, but Bilbo could not bring himself to wake Frodo. Instead, Bilbo ran his fingers through Frodo’s hair, knowing the faunt would awaken on his own soon enough and Bilbo, in the end, was too selfish to wake him up as Bilbo liked feeling his little nephew cuddled close.

Bilbo knew he couldn’t do this for long, that he would need to face his Family sometime soon, but at the same time he just wanted to hide away, just wanted to pretend that they weren’t here, that they were back in the East.

Why…why were they here anyway?

It had been a while, the time blurring slightly in his mind, and Thorin…

Thorin had ordered him away, sent him away, cursed their love and spat at the words they had exchanged. His Heart had been shattered by that Dwarf and still Bilbo loved him, for he was a foolish Hobbit and…

“Uncle Bilbo?” Frodo called and Bilbo hummed before he focused down on Frodo, who snuffled slightly.

His voice sounded raspy and Bilbo tutted lightly as he carefully pulled Frodo up to hug him close, smiling when he felt Frodo hug him back. “Yes my boy?” Bilbo responded softly.

“You ready to see your Dwarrows now?” Frodo asked quietly and Bilbo let out a watery laugh as he rubbed Frodo’s back, noting that Frodo was careful to shift so he wouldn’t upset Bilbo’s bad leg.

“No,” he answered honestly.

Silence filled the room, a soft pattering starting up against the window as Frodo clung tighter. “You want to see them?” Frodo inquired.

“Oh, very much so,” Bilbo whispered.

Frodo clutched at Bilbo. “Kay. But if Thorin says anything mean, I’m taking a piece of firewood to his knee,” Frodo stated as he, slowly, released Bilbo from his hug.

Bilbo knew he shouldn’t, but he couldn’t help but laugh at his nephew’s words, even though the laugh caused his leg to twitch and for fiery agony to race up his spine to rest at the base of his skull instead.

Frodo’s answering, and blinding, smile made it all worth it however.

* * *

The first to visit are Bofur and Bifur. Bofur is grinning, bright and unassuming, while Bifur is…Bifur. Both are welcome and Bilbo loves to be with them, listening to Bofur translating Bifur’s words, especially about Bombur. When they get to the part about Bombur’s wife, a lovely lady named Mairi, having another child, Bilbo is soon emendated with stories of Bombur’s three children and how he is doing in Erebor.

When Glorfindel enters with Elevensies, Bofur and Bifur quickly retreat with gentle good-byes, with Bifur hugging him tight before he pressed a carving of a little bunny into Bilbo’s hand.

Bilbo can’t help but laugh as the pain of an Unrequited Bond eased upon becoming Requited while sparks of pain climbed up his spine.

* * *

The day continued in a similar manner, each giving him an item of some sort. Dwalin gave a braided leather bracelet, Dori an afghan, and Óin some ointments. Ori snuck in later, after he had visited with Dori, with Frodo in his arms around Lunch with some gloves that he measured against Bilbo’s hands while explaining ‘Nori would be back soon and he shouldn’t get arrested, but if he does, he’ll actually mean his apology this time around.’

While he did feel comforted by the easing of the pain the Unrequited Bonds gave him, at the same time each visit caused the trepedition to claw its way up Bilbo’s throat, waiting till Thorin entered his bedroom, something that had Bilbo running his fingers over the knitted afghan, wondering when it was made, but never daring to ask.

The last pair to enter the room were Fíli and Kíli, who seemed happy to be the last pair. They were carefully as they settled on either side of Bilbo, and Frodo (who had remained even when Ori snuck back out), chatting about how much their Amad was going to kill them once they got back to Erebor.

As much as Bilbo did _not_ wish to know, he found out that they had left without saying good-bye to their mother.

They ran from the room to avoid Bilbo’s tongue lashing, though Frodo was quick to follow so he could continue it in his own words.

It was after tea time, with Bilbo feeling slightly…woozy, that a knock came from the door and, upon giving permission to enter, Thorin Oakenshield entered Bilbo’s bedroom.

* * *

Bilbo stared at Thorin, who stared back for a few moments before he looked away, shutting the bedroom door behind him.

Bilbo was sure it was his imagination that made it sound like the door closing on a crypt.

“I promise not to cause you intentional pain,” Thorin stated and Bilbo felt his fingers twitch slightly, barely keeping back a sharp laugh.

It would not be fair to Thorin, not after everything. Besides, Thorin still held his Heart and he could not laugh at that promise, so similar to one Bilbo had heard what felt like a lifetime ago. "I remember when you promised me that before," Bilbo mused and Thorin, masterfully, doesn’t flinch.

Bilbo knows it is low, but he hurts. His heart hurts to be beating again with how close Thorin is, yet how far away he is. Bilbo stared at the space between them, wondering if it was him that kept Thorin away, or if it was Thorin. Bilbo swallowed back the lump in this throat. “Would you please stop hovering by the door like you are expecting me to kick you out?” Bilbo asked desperately, causing Thorin to twitch, his head swinging up, braids swinging, to stare at Bilbo.

Bilbo looked away slightly, but he looked back again when he heard steps on the wood. Thorin hesitated at the bedside and Bilbo tried to smile, but he knew it would not look warm or inviting.

It had hurt, being forgotten like that, but they had tried so hard. And Bilbo had never been one to hold grudges.

“I’m sorry,” Thorin stated and Bilbo twitched before he stared up at Thorin with wide eyes.

“I’m sorry I threatened you and called you a traitor. I’m sorry I told you that it was all a lie and that I had only used you to sate my own desires and I felt nothing. I…I had not meant any of it. I was angry, thinking you had come only to betray me so fully in the end, but when I awoke and no one knew where you were, only that you were not dead, I was so relieved and…and torn apart. Because I couldn’t tell you that I was sorry and that I lied to you on the wall, but I was so angry, so I didn’t know what else to do then, because I hadn’t explained the situation and you hadn’t been there for some of it, and that wasn’t your fault, but I blamed you for it anyway,” Thorin stated and Bilbo stared up at him, wanting nothing more than to just hold Thorin.

“I forgave you a long time ago, Thorin,” Bilbo answered softly, feeling as if something was being fixed within him that he had never realized was broken.

Silence fell and it was tense, a soft pattering filling the air. “Do you want to know the worst part about that broken promise?” Bilbo asked softly and Thorin, whose eyes had been looking down at Bilbo’s covered legs, snapped back up to Bilbo’s face.

"I know that if I hadn’t done what I had done, you never would have broken that promise. And somehow, I can’t bring myself to say I would do it any differently," he continued softly.

Thorin sat down on the bed then, one hand coming to keep Bilbo from shifting, and yet it still jarred Bilbo’s leg, earning a low hiss. “It seems even when I try to be gentle, I hurt you,” Thorin whispered as he, carefully, rested his forehead against Bilbo’s.

Bilbo just shushed him gently and closed his eyes, letting Thorin’s presence warm him better than anything Glorfindel could come up with.

It wasn’t all okay, it wasn’t all fixed, but Bilbo couldn’t bring himself to hold a grudge when forgiveness felt so much better. There would be nightmares still, Bilbo was sure, and he knew that they would have to fix things.

But for now, Bilbo was happy to cling to Thorin and enjoy his presence that he had missed since he was held over the wall at Erebor. Thorin seemed just as content to hold Bilbo in return, right up until shouted Sindarin echoed through the smial, causing Thorin to tense and Bilbo to groan.

Elladan and Elrohir were back.

And they were not pleased.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this took so long.
> 
> I hope you liked the chapter.


	38. Fire and Fear

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> PTSD
> 
> Panic Attack
> 
> Fun times had by all.

"You have to carry me out there," Bilbo stated, though he knew it was to convince him to let Thorin lift him up again while praying that he didn't think about being held over a wall.

Being threatened to be dropped, to be killed, and he feels as if his entire body has chilled when Thorin growls out a low, "What?"

That...that didn't help.

His heart pounds in his ribcage and he grasps tightly at his blanket as he resists the urge to scramble away from Thorin, to get away. Thorin was bigger, stronger, as he had proven before the Battle of Five Armies, and just the thought of that made Bilbo’s face feel frozen and his ribcage feel far too tight. He breathed in deeply through his nose, and reminded himself that he couldn't move away.

Not just for the physical reasons of that he couldn’t move without extreme pain, but also because if he moved away, it was unlikely he could get Thorin to carry him out. Since Thorin was the only one who could carry him out, moving would be counterproductive to getting out of this room. "I need you to carry me out there,” Bilbo repeated and Bilbo felt Thorin shift next to him, a hand keeping him balanced, not moving too much, trying to keep his leg from being jostled.

Bilbo appreciated it, but right now it took too long, far too long, to look up at Thorin, who was staring down at him like he thought Bilbo had lost his mind. As if he truly thought Bilbo was not one who should make decisions and Bilbo did his very best not to make a remark about that, especially as his words were sticking in his throat. “You are supposed to stay in bed,’ Thorin stated.

“Not if Elrohir is here facing Dwarrows,” Bilbo retorted, somehow managing to keep his voice steady.

When Thorin made no move to do anything, to pick Bilbo up or at least help him move, Bilbo crossed his arms and summoned all of his inner will to stare Thorin in the eyes. “You will either carry me out there or I will drag myself out there,” Bilbo stated and Thorin’s eyes narrowed briefly and they were icy, they were cold, and Bilbo had seen that before.

The Sindarin was now mixed with Khuzdul, however, so Bilbo didn’t wait for Thorin to either realize he was being serious and he forced himself to look away as he threw the blankets off of him and onto Thorin, biting back the scream of agony as dragon fire raced up his leg, up the spine, to crash into his brain. He panted softly as he focused on trying to move away from Thorin so he could crawl out of this bed.

He did not stop the hiss of agony mixed with the whimper of fear when he was suddenly lifted up into strong arms against a broad chest, bundled back up in the blankets. He clutched at Thorin’s shoulders, the cloth rough and covering metal, and Bilbo slowly looked up to find Thorin staring down at him as if he was torn between shaking him and shaking his head at him fondly. Like he had when…

When he had tried to convince them to move on despite the cough that clung to his chest, Thorin had looked at him like that.

A particularly loud shout had Bilbo twitching, a soft sound of pain escaping, even as he felt Thorin moving. “I should tie you to the bed,” Thorin murmured.

“Do and I’ll give Frodo permission to come at your knees with a piece of firewood. Besides, Glorfindel would disapprove and he’s one of your supporters in this smial. So, if you would be so kind, oh King Under the Mountain, I would appreciate it if you carried me out here _before_ Elrohir goes at the Dwarrows with his swords,” Bilbo answered as he held on, his knuckles turning white as he clutched at the rough cloth under his fingers.

Bilbo hunched closer slightly as more pain raced up his leg, clawing up his spine in _waves_ , as his heart tried to pound its way out of his ribcage, though from pain or fear he wasn’t sure. He couldn’t stop the small sound of pain as Thorin shifted him and clutched at Thorin all the tighter as he felt Thorin move.

As Bilbo breath began to come in smaller and smaller pants, each one trying to force its way out of its throat as soon as he could inhale, Bilbo realized this had probably been a bad idea. It was one thing to curl close to Thorin on the bed, but another entirely to have Thorin carry him. It was too much, and it hurt too much and…

“Breathe, Bilbo,” Thorin rumbled softly and Bilbo inhaled, feeling as if it was shredding his throat as he did.

His chest was still rising and falling far too quickly but Thorin kept murmuring, softly and gently, and soon Bilbo found he could breathe easier, though his face still felt cold and it was damp. He rubbed his face against his upper arm, even as he felt Thorin work on opening the door.

Both languages had increased in volume by now, and Bilbo clutched at Thorin tighter as the door was opened. Thorin had to wrestle the door as best as he could with Bilbo in his arms, and he clung all the tighter, trying to allow Thorin more reach, but his arms were shaking already from the effort and then they were in the hallway.

Glorfindel was being a pretty effective body shield between the two arguing sides of Elladan holding Elrohir back as Elrohir snarled insults in Sindarin at the Dwarrows. Bilbo clutched at Thorin and focused on Elrohir. “Elrohir!” Bilbo called, unable to keep the thread of pain hidden.

Elrohir’s focus immediately snapped to him, though only for the barest of seconds before his eyes flicked up to Thorin.

And Elrohir visibly seemed to shatter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Why do I hurt them so?


	39. Memories of an Age Ago (or so it feels)

Elrohir had expected many things when he returned from his trip. The Dwarrow having dismantled things or Glorfindel having been banned from every shop in the Shire, or any number of things that he could laugh over, or even finding Glorfindel sitting outside in the rain because he had taught Frodo curse words in Sindarin.

He had not expected the entire smial to be _filled_ with Dwarrow and Elrohir reacted as he always did when he faced Dwarrow; by lashing out.

It was a knee jerk reaction now, the past swirling through his mind. He remembered watching Dwarflings grow, of one in particularly, little Thráin (the first), who in particular liked him more than all before him, omitting Durin VI. He had helped him take his first steps, as he had Thráin’s father before him, and had been Thráin’s first word. He had been the favored babysitter, the one to carry the 47 year old King, the Dwarf Child King, out of what would become Moria after watching Náin I die by Balrog.

He had walked beside Thráin, supported his choices, been his protector, guardian, and advisor until the day Thráin threw him from Erebor.

He did not know what had happened, why he had been thrown from the Kingdom, sent away by the one person who could. He hadn’t had his braids revoked (those could only be removed by Durin, as they were put in by Durin), but Elrohir could not face Dwarrow anymore.

How could he, when he had failed a friend and child he had practically raised? He had broken a vow and seeing Dwarrow was just…it made it worse.

It didn’t help that he hadn’t faced the Balrog. He should have faced it, kept the Dwarrow of Moria safe for even longer, kept out the darkness and beat it back with his own light. His mother would have forgiven him, maybe, and he doesn’t even know what he’s shouting at the Dwarrow anymore, now that he realizes that the words are coming from him.

“Elrohir!”

Bilbo who was just as hurt by Dwarrow, who understood on a level that not even Glorfindel did (though he understood the guilt and the repeated phrase of, “There was nothing you could do,” was just a short term bandage on a festering wound), and Elrohir looked over him, silenced mid word.

But those arms were familiar and his eyes flickered up, and for a moment, Elrohir thought he was staring at Thráin.

 _“El! El!”_ the bright voice of long ago (so long ago, an Age ago) echoed through his mind and Elrohir dropped, legs collapsing, as he stared at a living apparition.

“No, no, you…don’t…why?” Elrohir asked, though he was pretty sure he was talking in Sindarin, he didn’t know, but he heard movement.

He twitched when he felt hands, gentle hands guiding him into a hug, and he clung to Bilbo, recognizing him. “He’s not supposed to be here, he’s dead, I wasn’t even able to go to the funeral, he’s dead and buried and I wasn’t even able to say goodbye,” Elrohir babbled as he buried his face into Bilbo’s neck.

“I’m sorry,” Bilbo soothed, and there were fingers in his hair, and Elrohir clung tightly back, burying himself in someone who would, at least partially, understand what he meant.

Elrohir curled tighter, shifted so he wasn’t pining Bilbo, but Bilbo just held back, running his fingers through his hair, even as Elrohir tried to pretend the Dwarfling he raised wasn’t back from the dead.

* * *

Bilbo murmured nonsense against Elrohir’s hair as he held the Elf, ignoring how the fire climbed his spine to rest along his temples and his eyes water in pain. He felt Elrohir shift, trying to elevate the pressure, as he mumbled in Sindarin into Bilbo’s shoulder, but all that did was made Bilbo’s breath stutter as the pain surged.

He looked up when he felt someone kneel down next to them and Glorfindel smiled weakly at him. “I’ve got Bilbo, you get Elrohir, Elladan. We need to move them,” Glorfindel stated as he began to work on trying to lift Bilbo off the ground.

The smallest shift, however, had Elrohir scrambling and gasping out broken words that Bilbo could not make sense of, holding tighter. This had the, very unfortunate and _painful_ side effect of jostling Bilbo’s leg.

He knew he shouldn't have tried to walk on it, but he had needed to get to Elrohir, as neither his brother nor Glorfindel seemed to reach him, wherever he had gone. He couldn’t watch Elrohir fall into some dark place he went to when he was left alone with his thoughts around Fíli and Kíli, mainly though the other Dwarrow just as much.

Elrohir was babbling again, even as Elladan tried to get Elrohir to let Bilbo go, but it just renewed Elrohir’s clinging.

“What is going on?” Thorin asked and Elrohir flinched slightly, even as Bilbo pulled the dark haired Elf closer.

That…wow…that really hurt. Almost as much as if it was being broken all over again.

Oh, ow.

“He hasn’t done this for almost an Age, so I’m afraid I can’t tell you, your Majesty,” Elladan answered and Bilbo reached up with a shaking hand to smack Elladan upside the head before he focused on Elrohir.

“Normally, Elves just go to the West, but…well, Elrohir is stubborn,” Glorfindel explained as he ran his hands over Elrohir’s back.

“He’s trying to figure out what to do, so he’s shutting down and he’s latched onto Bilbo because Bilbo is the safest. Unfortunately…well, the fact he’s on the ground and with his leg twisted like that, worse damage could be done. I’m not entirely sure on that front, but Elrohir is heavy and on top of Bilbo’s weight on that leg, around where the break was? I don’t really want him _staying_ on the ground,” Glrofindel continued softly and sighed, even as Bofur let out a sound of confirmation.

“Bifur gets that way too, right Bif?” Bofur called and Bifur gave a sound that could be confirmation.

“What do you mean?” Elladan asked and Glorfindel sighed, Bilbo wincing when their next attempt to move Elrohir resulting in new fire joining the old.

“Waking memories, when one relives the past, generally in a traumatic fashion. At least, that is what Men call it. Dwarrow got it close enough,” Bofur explained.

Bilbo could practically feel Elladan’s frustration, even as Bilbo just tried to keep Elrohir calm and not clinging. Even the smallest shift was making Bilbo wish he could just pass out. “But what is it?” Elladan hissed and Bilbo let out a sound of surprised pain as Glorfindel finally managed to get him free.

Elrohir began to thrash, but Elladan had him. “Let’s get them to bed. And Elves don’t have a word for it; we just Fade or go West,” Glorfindel answered as he began to head for the bedroom Bilbo had just left.

* * *

Thorin glowered at the bedroom door, though he didn’t voice his opinion. Waking Nightmares were nothing to be trifled with and if Bilbo was going to help Elrohir so Thorin could _speak_ with _his_ Burglar sooner, than he could live with it.

He resisted the urge to snarl when Dwalin urged him to sit and he looked up when Glorfindel walked out. “Well…this has been a fun day for all,” he stated as he began to make tea.

Thorin snorted, but didn’t ask.

He wasn’t sure he wanted to know, even if he wanted to march in there and talk everything out with Bilbo.

He sighed and leaned forward, burying his fingers into his hair, rubbing small circles across his scalp.

When would this nightmare end?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> THERE! THAT'S WHAT SET OFF ELROHIR!
> 
> Ugh.
> 
> I hate the second half of this chapter, but basically Bilbo and Thorin's talk is postponed till Elrohir can function again.
> 
> Side-effect of the fact Elves don't know PTSD.
> 
> Fun.


	40. Heartbeats

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Elrohir comes back from his bolt hole, ignores Dwarves, and bonds with Frodo.
> 
> Bilbo and Thorin continue their talk.
> 
> ((MINOR ALLUSIONS TO RAPE DISCUSSED IN HERE, though really only noticable if you know a bunch about Tolkien and Celebrain, Elrond's wife and Elrohir, Elladan, and Arwen's mother))

Elrohir could feel fingers running through his hair, carefully. He pushed his nose into the source of the warmth, which smelled of herb tea. "Bilbo?" he whined and he felt Bilbo hum.

"I'm here Elrohir, I'm here," Bilbo murmured softly as felt Bilbo's hand run down from his forehead, over his scalp, and down his hair to his shoulders before repeating.

"Don't leave," Elrohir whimpered.

"I won't," Bilbo answered and Elrohir buried himself into Bilbo’s embrace with a sigh, slipping back into sleep.

* * *

Elrohir didn’t look at a single Dwarf, staring pointedly across the room, stiller than a statue. “You should really talk about it,” Elladan stated and Elrohir shook his head.

“No,” he gritted out when Elladan opened his mouth and the other sighed before he settled back.

“You are impossible,” Elladan stated.

“That’s why I am our mother’s son and your father’s,” Elrohir answered.

“She was not nearly as stubborn,” Glorfindel corrected as he handed Elrohir a mug of tea and headed for the fireplace, scooping some embers into a metal pan, locking the lid closed once he was done with only minor hisses of pain.

“She lived to go West, I think that makes me just as stubborn!” Elrohir snapped and Glorfindel raised an eyebrow at him as he slowly stood.

He looked ready to speak before he sighed and reached forward, pressing his hand to Elrohir’s shoulder. “Very well, you are your mother’s son. And stubborn to the point it will take a Balrog to stop you, and that’s not an invitation to go and find the one in _Moria_ to kill to end it all, because if I can’t do it, neither can you! So, end of discussion, no one talks about anything till I get back, especially about their Mother, and I have a patient to take care of. Thorin, if you’ll come with me. Don’t. Speak,” Glorfindel answered and walked out of the room, the heavy tread of the Dwarf following.

Elrohir didn’t look towards them, just stood up and left the smial, Frodo at his heels.

* * *

“Why don’t you like the Dwarrow?” Frodo asked as he helped Elrohir take care of all the equines.

“It is not that, young Master Baggins,” Elrohir corrected softly and Frodo frowned at him, even as he tugged Elf Owl around so he could release the gelding into the field with the Elvish horses.

“Then why do you act that way around them?” Frodo asked as he stared up at Elrohir, Elf Owl kicking up his heels as he joined the horses.

“Because…they remind me of the fact I broke a vow I made long ago,” he stated as he let out the last of the ponies into the field, Blackberry and Myrtle quickly joining the rest.

Elrohir nearly smiled when he saw the way Myrtle was sliding up next to Gaeralagos, the only stallion in the area that, despite being Elvish, wasn’t basically a Maiar. Asfaloth, at the very least, didn’t seem all that upset that Myrtle had set her sights on Gaeralagos. The vast difference in height between the pony and the horse was almost amusing, and Elrohir turned from them to focus on the Hobbit lad as the faunt asked, “What vow?”

Elrohir let out self-deprecating chuckle as he easily lifted Frodo up to balance on his hip, an action still smooth thanks to all the times he picked up Estel and carted him around. Frodo didn’t seem to mind, unlike Estel, and instead latched onto Elrohir’s shoulder. “A very important one. One I made to a dear friend right before he died as I carried his son out of danger,” Elrohir answered softly.

“Like how Uncle Bilbo swore to always keep me safe?” Frodo asked and Elrohir nodded.

“A bit,” Elrohir agreed and Frodo hummed as he settled against Elrohir’s shoulder, even as the skies opened up, the rain pattering down on them.

The equines merely let out a happy squeals and began to canter around the open field. “Good thing there’s cover to put the oat buckets in, huh?” Frodo questioned.

“Quite,” Elrohir answered softly, even as he carried Frodo into the stable.

* * *

Bilbo blinked tiredly as he felt the bed dip slightly on the right side and he looked over to find Thorin sitting there. “We…never finished our talk,” he murmured and Bilbo smiled a bit, before he hissed as he felt the mattress being shifted.

“Sorry Bilbo,” Glorfindel murmured and reached out to gently settle the blankets back over his leg.

A few more moments of painful heartbeats and gentle fussing, Glorfindel had settled another quilt over Bilbo’s legs before he left. He paused at the doorway and leveled a dark and heavy look at Thorin. “You have an hour. After that, Bilbo is going to be spending the rest of the day being in a drugged sleep, due to the fact the leg is weak where it was broken and there are some…stresses on the bone, because someone _walked on their leg_ when they shouldn’t have!” Glorfindel stated and then swept out of the room.

“Some days, I think he’s a lord,” Bilbo stated and Thorin snorted before he began to carefully shift across the bed, his socked feet mussing up the blankets slightly before he settled next to Bilbo.

Bilbo shuddered at the jostling of his leg and Thorin made a soothing sound, carefully pressing his hands against Bilbo’s torso. “My apologies,” he murmured softly and Bilbo merely nodded, even as he slumped against the pillows.

He felt so drained and there was a low burn throb of pain filling his entire being. According to Glorfindel, he had pulled muscles as well as, maybe, possibly…stress fractured his leg due to Elrohir laying on it. In its already weakened state, even if it had been fully healed for a year or so, it was too much stress on his leg. “Not your fault,” Bilbo murmured as he carefully settled his head on Thorin’s shoulder.

“We were talking about forgiveness, I believe,” Bilbo murmured and Thorin chuckled softly.

“Yes, yes we were,” Thorin answered.

“Yes…about that. I think…I should explain, why I took the Arkenstone,” Bilbo murmured softly and Thorin tensed, even as he settled his head on Bilbo’s.

“I just…I wanted to save you. I…had given you my Heart without even realizing it, but once given away, I couldn’t take it back. It…it was yours till the end of time, and I just…I couldn’t imagine a world without you. I understood that…it wasn’t just the goldsickness and I heard later from Bard and just… _why_ didn’t anyone just talk? It was so much madness and I was so desperate, and I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry that I took it and gave it away like that! I just…I wanted you safe. I wanted you to be safe, that’s all I ever wanted and then…you were flung so far, you and then…I just…I just wanted you safe, and I’m so sorry,” Bilbo explained shakily, feeling his Heart beating out _Thor-in, Thor-in, Thor-in_ once more and he grasped at Thorin’s shirt.

“You…you defended me Bilbo, after I fell to my pride and Azog?” Thorin asked and Bilbo tensed before he nodded.

He gasped slightly in pain as Thorin hugged him tight, the murmurs in Khuzdhul apologetic, even as Thorin hugged him all the tighter. He grasped at Thorin’s shirt, the fabric thick in his fingers and he buried his nose into the collar of the shirt.

“Oh, I forgive you my Hobbit, my brave, bright, wonderful Burglar, who fought for me in a battle that was not his,” Thorin murmured and Bilbo shook his head.

“You have my Heart, Thorin. Any fight you have is my fight, even when you handled it so callously,” Bilbo responded, wincing a bit at his word choice.

But it hurt, still hurt, even with Thorin right here, his Heart beating anew and just…

Bilbo held onto Thorin tighter, even if his leg was burning and his eyes watered and Thorin held him. “Bilbo?”

“Mm-hmm?” Bilbo responded.

“Why do you keep emphasizing Heart like you are doing?”

Bilbo felt himself pale and he trembled, wondering if, so shortly after getting his Heart beating again, if it would stop once more.


End file.
